Archive

What worries me is not that we will not be forever, or that this is ending, or even, really, that you will not be nostalgic; what worries me is that I can't tell what or how much I will remember. I don't know what got saved, and what erased. I have shot a roll on film, and what worries me is that I will disappointed with the results. What worries me is that I will not contain this time once it's done. But also, if I'm honest, I'm worried you won't contain me.

ROAD TRIP

I decided that, in order to be a good driver, I must never go more than five over the speed limit. I decided that, in order to be a good driver, I must always pull into the rightmost lane to allow faster traffic to pass. I decided that, in order to be a good driver, I must only take even-numbered exits. I decided that, in order to be a good driver, I must only pass cars if their license plate is different than mine. I decided that, in order to be a good driver, I must only run the windshield wipers for five wipes in a row. Then we began to argue about why it mattered how many times the wipers wiped. Then you began to tell me that it didn't matter where the license plates were from. Then I let you out of the car because you wanted to take Exit 71.

A case for proximity

The most dangerous feeling is comfort. The palm of a foot wrapping around a calf or a hair caught in beard or the whistle of the tea kettle halfway out of sleep. Headache from too much closeness, breathless from too much contact, restless with cabin fever. You don't know how to hold yourself upright anymore, your body just wants to lean. A sick feeling, like sleeping till one in winter, or halloween candy. A druggish sluggishness. Thick blood, slow moves. I'm going to stay in bed again today to be with you.