There’s a kind of place you see, when you’re sitting passenger, looking out of the window or through the windshield. And after so many times, I’ve come to realize that it’s the same mental state no matter what kind of materials I’ve furnished mine with, previously. And you can tell when someone is standing in the dark, sulking over the disappearance of their velvet drapes and kitchen sink. It’s scary, because I’ve been a victim of my own depths before and I can only imagine just how long a person can live their loss.
You’re pissed about the sunlight streaming in, so you board up the windows. You start to take in water from the flood, and you won’t let it go to save your life so you start to drown. You pace back and forth on the ocean floor, from your sunken treasure to the coral reef and back again, because that’s as far as you can go, not that it matters. You’ve mutated and you breathe your own heartache, in and out. People have to really call, in order for you to hear them. You’ve gone.
Did I leave something out? I can’t remember it as well as if I could still relate. The memory of that impact, though, is strong. This year has been good to me, and I suppose I could construct a figurative mansion complete with an underground pool out back. But to be honest, I’d be too concerned about my own wiring to dive in, for fear of some kind of self-induced relapse.
“Egyptian cotton,” I thought, resting between sheets of it, “I never write about any of this. I should think about trying to.”
My past is full of periods in time that got intense and ended abruptly, like waking up in the middle of a movie your brain’s playing out. There are never goodbyes or much reason to my admittance, which has never bothered me so much, before. For some time now, I’ve been lying awake at night and getting up to recollections that crawled long distances to the forefront. All I ever dare to derive is that it all kind of overwhelms because I know they weren’t dreams.
Characters I capture in writing and then withdraw from seemed to end with my words. They never get any fatter or go back on their pinky swear. Even the brick road that has been in town for forever was restored last year, taking thousands of dollars in order to make the road red like they’ve known it to be. I’ve pointlessly wracked my brain over it, trying to figure out what we managed to preserve.
What you keep, what you fight for. When you give up, when you look back. Who’s here, who isn’t. What you can do. What you can’t do. What it means, what now.
My mother’s dad passed away and her place for escape currently has the look of slow recovery. Farm equipment is disappearing, personal items are strewn about and there’s a gaping hole on the grounds where someone used to be. I spent a lot of time in Alma with an aunt and grandparents that worked together to create the perfect reality until one day… it just wasn’t like that, anymore. And before it can be something else, there’s a transitional period where you see the ruins and mourn the loss…
Are your memories something that you have, or reminders of something you miss?
These ideas and images were coming to me on my way through town as I watched an abandoned complex being demolished. I eyed the yellow machines suspiciously. They had toothed parts and were coming down from high up, like monsters eating through a page in my story.
All of these construction sites.
I had started to forget that this place isn’t a world in my head that never changes.