doingthewritething
I sat on the bench in front of the flowers in the park. I watched the children play. I wondered if they would see me if they looked over here. I can feel the warmth of the sun on my hair. Or maybe that is an illusion. Maybe none of this exists except in my imagination. Maybe I'm still in that dark room.
She cuts a piece of chicken and stabs it with her fork. She does not look at the others at the table as she lifts the bite to her mouth but she can feel the weight of their eyes on her. She tries to ignore the thick silence that surrounds her as the taste of sage and smoke fill her.
We fall to the ground, laughing. The liquid gold sunlight pours down on us. It is a perfect moment caught on film, way baen film was still the norm for taking pictures. I wonder at the people in that picture. Do they still exist somewhere or has the worlde too far for that now?
The man put the microphone up to his lips and began to speak. The sound of his voice was drowned out by the the roaring of the crowd. I felt them pressing all around me. They pushed closer to the stageI was carried with them. I wanted to hear what the man was saying but I still could not hear his words. Then the screaming began.
I stood on the pile of twisted cars and watched the revolt roll through the crowd. The yelling like one great voice from many throats. I felt it rise in me too but I held on to the lasts of myself. Then the shaking began, slowly at first but gathering strength until the sound of it was louder than the roaring of the crowd and no one could keep their feet.
The fragrance of perfume still inhabits the room. Like a living thing. The ghost of the one who lived here before. t never completely fades away. Sometiems its stronger and sometimes almost gone. Then it drifts back again. It smells like laundry reeze. Like my grandmother standing in the backyard, hanging sheets on the line. Like sun on my hair
I saw the pills scattered on the floor and wondered what happened. Then I wondered how they could look so pretty they way they had fallen. They made a pattern and it spelled something out but I couldn't read what it was. I stared and saw the pattern of the stars. The history of the world. My own history. The beginning and end. I see something else falling from my hand. It's a bottle. A pill bottle and it falls into the pattern. Then I fall in too.
I stood in the old darkroom wondering what exactly I should do with all of Uncle Harry's old equipment. I didn't know the first thing about developing pictures. All I ever did was send my pics to Costco over the web and pick them up later. The bottles of chemicals looked dangerous. I thought again how my mom should be doing this. Not me
I saw the print at the garage sale and just had to have it. I didn't know the artist but I knew the place. I was my house. My room. My old room anyway...the one I had when I was a kid, before all the...Anyway, it was my room but the date on the painting said 1922. That was eons before I was even born. How could that be?