“But what is memory if not the language of feeling, a dictionary of faces and days and smells which repeat themselves like the verbs and adjectives in a speech, sneaking in behind the thing itself,into the pure present, making us sad or teaching us vicariously…”
Julio Cortázar, Hopscotch (trans. by Gregory Rabassa)
The moment your feet can’t reach the bottom of the lake treading water; your friends watch you from the shore.
Through the smoke, a shearling jacket and a dark pair of eyes materialize and find their way onto you. Warmer.
The strobe lights are bright splintered shards which follow you onto the balcony; from flashes of colour and a half obscured crowd to the frozen air: fresh and sharp.
Looking back at your friend. They call out, hands cupped around their mouth. But the sun still kisses the surface. Not yet. Something stirs under you, a seductive blur. The unfamiliar streets roll beneath your feet, pushing you two closer. Closer.
Every street lamp glows like a hand held in front of the sun. A car rolls past and someone calls out to you your swaying body.
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat.”
Finally you dare to dive deep, to leave behind the afternoon’s cloying warmth, the gathering flies. Some beautiful creature twists
Below your feet. Knee to knee on a couch made for one, as words begin slurring into assonant nonsense. A warm head on your shoulder, a sticky heartbeat. The cruel, soft loss in your chest before the moment has even ended. Hazy, thick swathes of air gather you up, lull you to sleep.
The lake is deeper than you hoped. Boundless, and the gorgeous beast escapes into that dull murkiness, forever too far to discern. Besides, your breath suddenly fails
Lungs. Water. Panic. Air. Space becomes an agent of destruction between you, making of every storm an omen; of every silence, a chasm. Time spins its thread faster than you would let it, weaving a cloth of concrete grey, the tapestry of your conversation.
Your body rises propelled by air and breaks the surface. Daylight still dribbles through the trees but the chill is gradually overwhelming.
On the bank, engulfed by a sandpaper towel, one thought lays claim to your mind: if I could have held on longer…
Two arms unravel on a quiet street. No one hears you leave.
The ghostly footprints on the pavement will dissolve in time.
It is 4pm.
The filmy post sunset enchantment is abandoned to the dull glare of daylight and turns ugly; the night stays curled in upon itself.
Every trip I’ve ever taken, every home I’ve ever had, requires a dedicated effort to bring it to the forefront of my mind after the fact and even when I manage to haul a memory out of my subconscious it remains a wispy, fleeting mass. Like trying to paint a cloud on a windy day.
