I find a rhythm, reaching up, tossing down, reaching up, hurling down.
The Holga barely flinches, but the bells-&-whistles Nikons crack & shatter, their brittle-glass echoes filling the room & I’m flinging empty film canisters, the hollow plastic making an unsatisfying ping & the negatives are next to go: curling strands of blue-black transparent images, layers upon layers of moments.
The eyes of the camera, half-shut and quivering, follow me as I
pace around the pile,
haphazardly kicking the stray bits on the shifting perimeter. _____________________ Kneeling on the floor, I push shoeboxes towards the heap of remnants: My fury: confetti tatters of birthday cards, paper clips, balled-up napkins with poem ideas, ticket stubs, postcards stream down like tsunami waves. Slick color photographs cling to one another even as they escape their albums but the black-&whites are forced to separate: their heavy photo paper causes a downward drift. _____________________ When I can’t see the marred hardwood floor anymore, I climb atop the pile, crushing buffalo skulls & split-cams & clay bowls beneath my feet. From my perch, I can see down the hallway of the apartment, to the unmade bed & your jacket, the sleeves twisted inside out. The hallway lights cast submarine shadows on the floor & I realize that it’s late—
The moon has begun to whisper to its other half.
DOSSIER ∙ FALL 2008
Carnegie Mellon University's Undergraduate Art and Literary Magazine