look: aglow
"i'm calling from amherst, from the train station," her voice creaks, crackles with distance and snow. "a notebook of yours seems to be in our lost and found." this is last week. before leaving the seaside in december, i looked under all the couches, between rumpled sheets, behind the bookcases & i was so convinced that it was somewhere, under an unsuspecting pile of looseleaf. by the end of term, our apartment collects stains like the inside curve of a teacup.
a uniformed woman finally hands me the pale, black rectangle - this is today, weightless and unfamiliar. she is knowing and she looks me in the eye and she says that she wouldn't want to lose this either. i have come to meet trains every afternoon of the new year, and all the while, the moleskine was waiting on the windowsill that overlooks the platform and the grooved tracks. (if the words had been different, if the words had come sooner-)
i sit in the empty station for a long time, readjusting, reassuring. i read myself as if a stranger, with exploratory eyes and curious for difference. i am troubled by new cracks in the spine, blunt pages, the tatterings of tangled ribbon. strangerness. a translucent poppy from the hillsides of florence, dessicated and purpling, flakes quickly into dust. leaves picked up off sidewalks still between the blankest pages. (this, this is akin to the rediscovery of story; the settled, sleeping body of memory.) how, standing at the wicket with my fingers crossed, i am struck by such possibilities of loss and recollection.
a uniformed woman finally hands me the pale, black rectangle - this is today, weightless and unfamiliar. she is knowing and she looks me in the eye and she says that she wouldn't want to lose this either. i have come to meet trains every afternoon of the new year, and all the while, the moleskine was waiting on the windowsill that overlooks the platform and the grooved tracks. (if the words had been different, if the words had come sooner-)
i sit in the empty station for a long time, readjusting, reassuring. i read myself as if a stranger, with exploratory eyes and curious for difference. i am troubled by new cracks in the spine, blunt pages, the tatterings of tangled ribbon. strangerness. a translucent poppy from the hillsides of florence, dessicated and purpling, flakes quickly into dust. leaves picked up off sidewalks still between the blankest pages. (this, this is akin to the rediscovery of story; the settled, sleeping body of memory.) how, standing at the wicket with my fingers crossed, i am struck by such possibilities of loss and recollection.
1 comment:
wow
i came across your blog
and i totally dig the pics
and they writings
are they all done by you?
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