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secret windows (don't look back)

I found myself in a conversation with an old friend, about the crossroads of writing, nostalgia and memory. "Distance and perspective are the upside." I said. "The slippery slope is romanticizing and being nostalgic. Well, that's the memory trap no matter who you are."
"It's funny... I spent most of my life thinking that I had a rather dull adolescence, and it's only recently that I've discovered that these stories are a lot more interesting than I gave them credit." My friend replied. I admitted that I gravitate towards stories that are based on a mistake, a lie - thinking you had some great childhood, when actually it was a shitshow, and you fantasized about being adopted but sort of blocked that out.  


The question wobbled around inside my head for a few days. Was I too fast to judge nostalgia, to quick to brush aside its sweetness, stepping over it towards something invariably darker and sadder?  On Sunday, I was walking on Kutuzovsky,…

the zoo

There is a moment when I wake from each dream in the series, pausing in the dark room and adjusting to the drapes as I fumble for my watch. It is New York in them, autumn. I am on high floors. All of the lights are off. There are feats of strength. There are gunshots, plans, schemes, tiny voices in my head telling me to turn left or right. In one, a truck of giant spaghetti is dumped into a river, and gets cooked in the cold water somehow then draped across a log that spans a waterfall. In another I find an extra room in my apartment, an apartment I never actually lived in.

The sky and the river are cold and flat.
The air is hard and cold but the door to the balcony is left open. We huddle against each other under the comforter, feeling that pressure to bear the cold for a taste of fresh air until the very end, until we become zoo animals under dirty glass.
I curl my feet under hers, and then she curls hers under mine.


Headaches are pressed aside.
Coffee tastes bitter.
The apartment is a cascading mess and a pair of new shoes stand in a doorway, practically talking to me.

I wander the rooms, restless after everyone has gone to sleep.






Comments

liv said…
Oh, that made me laugh. Dreams, they are so hard to understand sometimes and then again, once in a while they tell something you Need to know and you are grateful for the revelation. Usually I just can't remember them and get frustrated with the struggle to untangle the threads.

But that last line was wonderful. "I wander the rooms, restless after everyone has gone to sleep." That's you, Marco. That's just you in a nutshell: so much that you want to do, see, tell. A superhero on a mission. But rest is good, hope you get some.

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