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The Moment After Section :: Page 6
The world is always on the verge of being something else. Call it the temple/missile effect. I think the world’s drawn double, like an optical illusion.
Ahead in the dimness, I heard bells. A belly dancer was jingling my way, still costumed and ringing from wrist to ankle. She smiled as she passed, enjoying the sleigh-bell sound of her own trot, I think.
My legs were pumping at a rate that suggested the Rabbit’s “I’m late, I’m late!” more than the dreamy, psychedelically mellowed Caterpillar. Every time I noticed how fast I was going, I slowed down. That’s all you can really do: notice, and let your grip go.
More reliably than memory, writing holds the trace of who you were and are. Often this is talked about in terms of measuring the distance between the two.
She paused. I paused. Ross seemed to read my mind, or my raised eyebrows. “Yup, raw fish in the blender.” It was an ordinary kitchen blender, I saw later. Perfect for fish frappes!
Suppleness, or its lack, is on my mind, and not just because the world is experiencing its annual arteriosclerosis. Change, any change, triggers in me a sort of panic.
It’s 90 fierce degrees outside, but summer is done. Labor Day arrives to wake us from the green dream.
Time was wrinkling. I was leaving one party and stepping into another, long past.
I confess: I had a brief romance last summer. With Vermont. Not the whole state, just one or two towns.
We were peering into the universe — back through time, as my grandfather loved to tell me when I was a girl.