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{Reservations} {Tickets} {Map} {Photos} {Souvaniers} {Postcards} {Design} 2002-04-13 | 1:14 a.m. O Dear God, this is so hard! Trying to recall things, even little things, is remarkably frustrating, time consuming, and a bore. I wrote a piece about a dance hall a year ago. Described the open space and the way I felt big, from the inside out, whenever I was there for ballet lessons. Blabla...towering staircase, where Kim felt the velvety bannister under her fingertips as they skimmed along......blabla..... heavy black phone waited atop the old desk... bare windows that let in the daylight... the bar that streaked horizontally from front to back....worn hardwood floor more dear to my eyes than the faces of old aunts, more welcome than twisted fingers holding out plates full of fried squash blossoms on paper napkins.... Blablabla. Some of it comes back, when it wants to, and sometimes I can't remember. I feel bitter, like crying. Then I give up. Just like that. No more wanting the words to float off the page and become real. As you, dear reader, read these words and process what they mean to you, my desire to communicate shrinks, climbs back into my heart, and is gone. The desire to connect dies. It disappears as quickly as it came, and I'm off to something different. Miss These? absence of life - 2003-07-28 |
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