Sometimes I wonder how it is that I’ve managed to get where I am, as if I’m living in a tunnel with one exit out into the light, and the circuitous route there, is being built with each step I take.
This year, time itself is moving so fast. Each second, every minute, is less intangible than the last. The things I remember are hazy, a blur moving pictures on fast–forward. Scary. I wonder if this is what a mid-life crisis feels like?
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Emily’s love for her home is almost obsessive: the ivy, the lilies, the cobblestone patio, the crown molding. It’s easy to have house envy with all that she has done with the space. I admire her determination to have a space that is rooted in herself that is her own history.
When I think of what I have in my home, the memories and tokens that invoke scenes of the past are few. From having always lived in the same house, I purge the non-essential items: the books, the photos, the clothing, and the dishware. Every expert organizer guides you to believe that your memory will last longer than the object itself. I think perhaps that is a wrong assumption, what happens when it is your memory that is lost?
Kristin and I were talking about this last night: she encouraged me to start looking for my own but where? The voice of where to live, where to go is a soft whisper hiding in the recesses of my mind, if it exists somewhere how will I know where to look. This house on Stanton Street … is there one somewhere that will call to me?
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My dream: seven of us at a tropical destination the image of untouched sand and palm trees; a dialogue about what to do next, where to go next. It is not Antigua, somewhere surreal and almost fantastical like a computer screensaver. There is a woman fallen ill, who needs a restroom. She knocks on my door and my room is my heart.
modern vintage ink 