Tuesday, June 26, 2007
after only moments - an after moment
It matters most when the lights begin to gather in on themselves to form an unresponsive shadow - an apparition that doesn't need to be rescued as much as it needs to be cauterized before spreading into the size and shape of smoke colored memories. We don't belong here anymore, books of folded pages and table leg marks, books from people who lost the ability to communicate years ago so now they spend their waking moments hiding from the sun. It matters most when the lights begin to flutter, when the wings that carry breath away from the earth reaches just above our heads and for a second there is something hopeful about tomorrow. Little slices of lives like bits of sand, fractured ideas moving against the spiraling of thoughts moving in and out of thinking about the fractured rain coming down the sloped windows of my car.
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2 comments:
Your stories remind me of the stories my dad used to read me from this old book. It didn't have a cover. He kept the pages together with these big rubber bands that snapped when he opened them and popped afterwards, usually after I had dozed off. He always comforted us that way, no matter how much he let us down every other way. I think I can't stand to read another one and then you write it and I fall to pieces all over again. Maybe we don't thank people for hurting us. Maybe we just appreciate how much they hurt to get it out.
You don't make the same kind of mix tape for a friend as you do for a lover, even if you've only seen them once naked, hips sweat-wet and shiny shadow shapes. By the time you get around to knowing what kind of story you want to share the stories go too far or not far enough, muddy romanticizing and popular indifference, Franky 'blue eyes' singing love and marriage that'll never be the same since that damn televised train wreck, the tortured family no song can ever get right, especially love me tender, never remind me again.
Creating a mix tape is like sorting your letters by the sound the pages make on your desk, the better ones that make paper cuts to remember, the crappy ones you can't forget soon enough.
There aren't enough stories about shitty fathers reading crap masterpieces without dust jackets, rubber band strums make believe guitar sounds - my dad never read anything he didn't do to make himself feel something, to be important, to seem well read and thoutful, no matter how far from ever being right he got or thought or wanted to.
"He always comforted us that way, no matter how much he let us down every other way." Is damn fine writing.
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