Transit of Memory

(green grass and cloudy sunsets)

Where did my mother go?

Is she dead? Yes.

But she’s in the living room, reading a book to you —

To me, to you, to her dead self, twenty years later.

I came to school one day without a pencil;

I came home one day without a mother.

Skipping stones across the pond by myself,

I thought of stuffed animals and Dr. Seuss;

I dreamt of demons and rings of fire.

I went to bed hungry —

So I ate your soul for breakfast.

I hope you don’t mind; it was so cold —

Sweet —

Delicious —

And yes, that was just to say.

Don’t let me forget what I did to you.

I can’t forgive myself — but I do anyways.

Did you call me evil?

I suppose you should: me the backstabber,

The tattle-teller (liar liar pants on fire)

The girl who stole your eraser.

I said I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I meant it.

So I’ll say it again: I’m sorry.

Not that it really means anything anymore —

I just thought I’d say it...just to say.

Mother said I was unappreciative for not saying “thank you” enough,

And for groaning when she told me to do homework.

But now she’s dead and I’m having an identity crisis

And I can’t remember why — I can’t remember why.

Why do I end up here?

(I’m sitting atop a hill, lying down, watching stars)

And watching my hands tremble in front of me,

Thinking of Thursday afternoon art classes

And that time I fell onto the dirt ground and scraped myself.

I’m at the edge of sleep, my eyes heavy with the past.

I’m trying to find myself somewhere in the dark,

Feeling my way, in vain,

Dancing out an aimless path.

Inklings of childhood drip by,

Like raindrops upon a window pane,

And I’m looking as hard as I can,

But all I can see is my dead mom

And you,

Scowling at me.

Concourse

What’s the hurry? We’re all going to die anyway. Look up. The sun’s out — oh, the beams are blocking the beams. Bump, shove; excuse me, where’s the nearest restroom? Sipping coffee, scrolling through emails, blink, check the schedule. Five minutes. Sit down, not next to him though, he just burped, blink — four minutes — tick tock, tick — forget the clock, forget the time, everything’s leaving, everything’s going. Something’s shaking the floor, yes, it’s your mind going crazy (join the rest of us), the people bustling through is a blur, it’s always been, it always will be. Look, don’t blink — BLINK — three minutes. Time’s running out, and you don’t care; now smile with me, even laugh, there’s no laughter here, it’s so empty with these people here. Two minutes. What’s the countdown even for anyway? Why don’t you go ask the gentleman sitting in the corner, he seems like he would know; but he’s gone — of course he’s gone (they always disappear) the air’s turning to mist now, oh the fog, the mist, say hi to Eliza for me. Blink, one minute. My throat’s dry, and I think yours is too, after all that talking and talking and everyone getting louder — BLARRRING HELLO HELLO ANYBODY HERE?? — no, no one’s here, say bye to Eliza for me, she’s a ghost now, wave at her, through her, yes, check the time, oh yes, it is time, it’s always time, a good time, no rush, no hurry, please, sit down, let’s enjoy ourselves. Zero. Blink.

The concourse is laid out in somewhat of a horseshoe shape, except fatter, like Mrs. Hamilton, and it takes anywhere between seven and twenty minutes to walk from one side to the other, depending on how crowded it is and how much of a rush you’re in. The floor’s white tiled, and the walls are white too — the whole place gleams, the skylights flooding the vast space with bright light, except when it’s cloudy or when it’s nighttime; but then, the industrial lights come on — some blink, but most solidly shine, flashing brightly, so there are barely any shadows except the people and the chairs and the massive signs and billboards — they’re all really shadows, of course.

The concourse links once place to the other; so most people only pass through without taking a real look at the steel beams overhead and the grand, cylindrical columns and the endless rows of windows. This is, not surprisingly, somewhat of a disappointment to Dr. Andros, the architect, who, like a father visiting a long lost child, comes by on occasion (he pretends it’s only a happy coincidence), to see how his concept has turned out. And though he does not say much, his eyes and his body are quite indicative, in my opinion. I once saw him standing in the middle of this great opening, at the center of the whole concourse, where the ceilings rise up to a marvelous apex into a dome-like pinnacle directly above. He was staring upward, looking lost and dazed, perhaps somber, if I could see his face more clearly now. I think this is very much a sign of his dissatisfaction: at the people there, and their unappreciation? or that his work’s realization did not match his imagination? I don’t know. But he does this often, or more often that anyone should, in that particular manner.

Janon works at one of the concourse shops which sells donuts, snacks, drinks, bad coffee, and newspapers. It’s a small shop, and takes up little space, and Janon rarely ever works with anyone else at the same time there. While he sits behind the counter, and watches men in suits walk by briskly, and children skipping, and old people stepping slowly to the annoyance of the men in suits who by now are answering their phones and talking loudly and aggressively, and young people standing to the side, rummaging through their backpacks for things they may have lost (or probably will lose), the panic, the

The intercom blares from time to time, making mundane announcements in that mundane but piercing tone, the exact wavelength and volume that cuts through the rumbling of footsteps and conversations and background music, but simply slides through, too, like water seeping through sand, and so the moisture is there, clogging everything up, sticky, but the water, the purity’s gone:

IFYOUHAVELOSTABLACKBACKPACK,PLEASECOMETOTHEINFORMATIONDESKBYGATEG53IMMEDIATELY—PLEASEREPORTANYSUSPICIOUSACTIVITYTOTHEPOLICEBYCALLING911ONANYPUBLICTELEPHONE—ASAREMINDER—FINALCALLFOR—

       

We met at the South Entrance; the revolving doors spun round and round, making a rhythmic thud as people filed in and took off their coats systematically. I stood there, about twenty feet from the entryway, waiting. I waited for perhaps ten or twelve minutes before you came in, pushing the heavy revolving door and stumbling inside, your eyes wandering across the large building for something to lock onto. You saw me after a few seconds, and I smiled; you smiled. You lunged at me and hugged me enthusiastically, squeezing me against you while you laughed a content laugh, and I think joined in too. We walked about the concourse, blending into the shades of the flock, moving indeterminably along with the current, side by side, most likely, but who could tell? Perhaps we talked, perhaps we listened, unthinking, shifting around in that stale air, breathing in and out.

When we got to our gate, we sat down on cold, steel chairs, and looked out and at each other. It was raining outside. Do you want to get a bite to eat, you asked? Maybe later, I said. So we chatted. We talked about our families and our work, nothing unusual, and I pointed out how it was raining outside, and that it rained quite often where I currently lived, and I didn’t like that. Rain depresses me, I said. You laughed, and nodded your head, but said that you didn’t mind the rain very much; rain makes home feel, I don’t know, cozier I guess, you said. Fair enough. More people crowded around the seating area, and we decided to get lunch (or was it dinner?). Music played, and it was hard to hear each other while we sipped on our beers and dipped our forks into overpriced food. I saw an attractive young lady in a orange dress sitting behind you, and our eyes met for a second before I turned away.

The concourse is a place for people to, while they hop from one transportative mode/vehicle to another, rest, eat, and not get rained on.

      anxiety, Janon feels, perhaps by extension, all of that in himself. Maybe it’s simply the boredom, he thinks, when he can think, which isn’t often, or maybe it is the fact that they are (they being all that has passed down the wide passage of the concourse) indeed all contained within him, in some odd metaphysical way. We’re all connected, us human beings, someone would say in a meditative voice. Yes, and we’re all the same. Janon probably does feel this way, in some form or another, but he has not been able to put enough thought into the matter to express that sentiment in words. Business is slow, especially early in the morning, when Janon imagines how the rest of the world is still asleep while he's awake, sitting under a lonely isolated light, and he's still asleep too, zoning in, zoning out, zooming through dreams and illusions of what could be — what can't be.

Do you hear me? The train (or plane or bus or   ) is arriving. It’s yours, I think. You should go now, it’d be a shame if you missed it, and then you’d be stuck here in this concourse for another few hours. You have more important and better places to be. Not this modernist, functional, soul-dead transit building used to measure the country’s arrogance and excess money. Sorry. Enough with the social commentary. But you should go. It was nice talking to you…what was your name again? _____. Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I’m so bad with names. All these proper nouns, they just kind of slip out of my mind after a short while; it’s really bad, I know. [laughs] [you start backing away, shouldering your backpack] All right, all right, I guess you’re going then, good-bye, have a safe journey. [I wave]

Now I’m alone, despite the crowd here; I can’t talk to them. An announcement comes on — is it mine? It’s not, but I strain to listen, because there’s nothing else to listen to; I have to listen to something. There are little potted plants that are such a deep green color I almost think that they’re fake. They’re planted in a row, evenly spaced across the entire corridor, and when I realize they all look the same — the branches, the bends and curves, the shape of the leaves — I step up to one of them, take a stem into my hands and look closely. Are they fake? Are they real? I’m inspecting every detail of that stem and leaf, and I’m thinking, yes, of course — yes.

The concourse never sleeps, so that if it was a person, it would certainly be an insomniac. And like insomniacs, its days become blurred, losing lucidity and building up a milky filter through which the moments pass. If time is a river, then the concourse itself is a stale pond. Only its rusting steel bolts and dirtying bathrooms are signs of time passing; and then the people there, who are often the same, going through the same motions and routines, but older, more deliberate, more subconscious, dead. It stands there, looming, but in a weird way, I think it’s lonely, and I think it cries to itself each night, after all the busy people have gone, sapped up its functionality, and all it can do is stare into space, barely noticing maintenance coming through and cleaning it up for the following day’s same monotonous flow.

We pass by each other in the concourse from time to time, or maybe it was just one time. You don’t recognize me, but I recognize you, and I’ll remember you; for a little while, perhaps. And next time, if there is going to be a next time, I’ll be sure to say hello. Walk outside my usual path, break the routine, meander away from the road I always take. Start with smiling. That’s a good start. We’re going to do something special — unforgettable. Something that both of us can be happy about, be proud of. How about we meet by the snack stand by Gate [ ]? What time? I don’t know. But I’m be sure that I’ll be there, waiting. We’re all waiting, am I right?

Fragments II

The chickens sat together around a round table,

chewing on their own legs.

Did you laugh?

Do you laugh?

Sign away those death warrants, please — thank you, sir.

Bon appetit! — pass the salt, please — thank you, sir.

Thank you, sir.

I’ll come again soon, but not soon enough. Oh —

...did you smile? Did you cry?

[weep weep] You bastard!

In a church: The choir collectively chokes on their hypocrisy —

I am — God is...laughing. Are you?

— pass the gasoline, please. We’ll make this place...shine…

we’ll make the mumbling stop, we’ll make the suffering...continue...

As starlight fades, as shadows grow, as wind decays, as water freezes,

as dead men moan, as dead men laugh, as everything dies, I rise.

Now pass the madness, please — thank you...sir.

Sprinkling down like gentle, innocuous rain, so it seems.

buuuuurrrrrrrnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn………………………………….

said he, the overman.

Smile, please.

Smile for the camera, please.

Thank you,

sir.

Falling Dreams Again

When I first awakened into that dream—

And it was a dream, right?—the blaring colors,

The vibrant sounds—what a cacophony—

All I could think of was getting home—

So far though, so distant, like a star in the sky,

Twinkling ever so slightly—so far.

And a stench of fear—why did it fill me so?

I knew not how I got there, of course,

Like all dreams—yet the feeling

Of being lost was so overwhelming—

Coupled with excitement—anxiety?

The air dripped with fantasy and

A pungent smell of possibility.

The ground shook, vibrated—an oddly

Comforting earthquake, it seemed.

Trees danced, and I danced along,

Tapping my feet to the rhythm of the wind—

Rainbows formed—sounds of laughter rose

And fell, and I fell—oh, the falling—

Into a black pit, an abyss of blank imagination,

I fell and spun—my feet dangled endlessly—

My head swirled as I’m sure it did, this dream.

(Could it be a nightmare?)

I saw my childhood—my forgotten days,

Clothed in vague beauty—so dangerous—

So deceptively luring—Home! Home! it called—

But where? The womb?—the grave?—

I remember, the stars, yes!

Stop falling! I yelled. But no sound.

Stop falling! I screamed—I pleaded, cried.

But no sound—no answer—

Only silence that hung—until I closed my eyes and

Finally I fell into the reality of the following morning.

Reflections on Attending a Party on an Autumn Evening

You coming for the food? you ask. I said yes, and you give a short, quick nod. We’re standing on the sidewalk, remember? Boys and girls walking between us, shuffling their feet, avoiding us, coming in between our locked eyes. Shall we go? This time it’s me that nods, though I do it slowly, almost hesitantly, but inside I’m confident. Shall we then? Nudging me with your eyebrows and a slight head tilt. I smiled, gently, subtly — we go. We go, talking from time to time, but mostly we keep our heads straight in front of us, looking at the road, looking at the trees around us, and the cars that pass, but never the pale blue sky, never the sun. The wind is cold and strong — I could barely feel it, but you rub your arms like they’re cold, cold skin and cold ears. I pretended not to notice. The air now, in springtime, smells like flowers and pollen, sweet and fresh, if not a bit damp, and a cause for allergies. But back then, in autumn, there was a particular dryness to it all, so my hands felt like paper, wrinkled like an old man’s, and I was constantly conscious of it — I kept on rubbing the tips of my fingers, trying to get that feeling out.

You ask about something — something about my sister, perhaps, or something about me, my family — something personal. Did I laugh? If I did, it was only because I was shy, or diffident, which happens only rarely, but I looked away and thought for a second. I slowed down my pace, or maybe it just seemed that way, to think. You’re looking at me in anticipation, and I glanced back, and turned away immediately, smiled again. I began a sentence, and your eyes light up a little bit, but the words choked in my throat, in my head — this odd collection of thoughts, crammed up somewhere in me, stray strings that stay afloat, unanchored by words. I said something eventually, once we got to an intersection, softly, as a car whizzed by so you can’t quite hear what I said — what? you say, with a tinge of force. I kind of repeated myself, but changed some of the words to make it less embarrassing ... for both of us.

When we arrive — it must have been around a fifteen minute walk — there were already plenty of people there. We’re not late, really, but not early either, and people were already immersed in their little groups, giggling, telling long jokes, sharing stories. I stood there while you begin walking in front of me. You do look back, if only for an instant, silently asking me to join, but just as quickly, and without a word, I declined. Then you go on, perhaps a little guilty, but probably not. It was all soon forgiven though, if indeed there was anything to forgive in the first place; I found myself talking to several guys that I had some classes with once, but that I was never actually that close with. And I enjoyed myself for the most part, as the day turned darker and colder, and the room became louder, boisterous with hearty laughter, people trying to talk fast with their mouths full, between sips, yelling across the room. We bumped into each other a few times, two or three times — we said hi to each other shyly, nothing else, nothing more, but in the ruckus of it all, those small moments seemed quiet, intimate — fleeting, nonetheless. I got tired early on, something that I’m not sure came naturally, or more as a premeditated excuse I was using to leave before midnight.

So soon enough, I found myself outside, listening to the muffled music from inside, chattering, indeterminate conversations, and crickets chirping. I was cold, yes, and I thought about leaving for home, but I stood there for whatever reason. I think I was probably waiting for someone, you, to come outside, and we could walk back together. I checked my watch many times, until it did reach midnight. At that, without the slightest second thought, without looking back at the lively scene behind me, I started walking away and went home. And you say that you left just minutes after!

It was weird that I didn’t feel tired when I returned to work, sitting there, mundane, soaking in the soul-sapping AC drone that some of my coworkers swear is the recruiting call of the devil. I could only laugh, of course, and smile in a sad way because it is kind of true, feeling your entire existence pressed down, and arms compelled to go through the same repetitive motions — still, when I come home in the evenings, and go on the Internet, they tell me to be grateful for what I have. They say: imagine you’re in Africa, starving, in the middle of a great civil war, and you’re caught up in these horrible life or death situations, that the village next to yours was completely wiped out by Ebola or something. Could you? I did try, really; it’s hard though. I just end up feeling amused, mostly, I must be a horrible person on the inside, I still complain when I run out of milk. Can someone patronize me for having problems, and being annoyed at the small things? Can you blame me?

I thought about asking you about this online for a second, but I ended up doing so with one of my friends when we went out for dinner — a French restaurant on Main Street, that was small, carefully decorated with red and gold wallpaper and plush seats and dim lighting, and we had waiter who was actually French but who was rather abrasive and almost rude. I asked her, my friend, in an innocent manner, posing it just as a quirky little brain exercise on a whim. Do you think we’re a little spoiled, taking into account all the, you know, horrible things that are happening around the world? I asked between bites of my shrimp scampi pasta. She thought about it for a few seconds, and slowly answered that she believes that we can complain about our relatively trivial troubles — it’s what makes us keep on getting better and better! she interjects enthusiastically — but that we should at the same time acknowledge that there are far worse problems in the world, and that knowing that will make us appreciate life more. I agreed, for argument’s sake, nodding over and over again as I finished my food and wiped the edges of my mouth. Afterwards, I offered to pay, but we ended up splitting the bill.

When we meet again, how about you take me to somewhere I haven’t been to before? Or somewhere neither of us have been? The world seems so familiar sometimes, I forget I know so little — that is, until I look around a little more, or look at you, and listen, and then I’ll feel utterly lost, like a child again. It brings back nostalgia, and then fear, and then this irking feeling that everything is slowly fading to black, with some rare flashes of light now and then. And now as I’m sitting in the dark, staring at this blinking, dimming, lamp, shifting between light and dark, I can’t help but be bothered by the same problems I had ten, fifteen, twenty years ago. Feeling unsettled, itching for something — but most of the time I just watch TV, read, eat, and everything seems to go away, the problems and worries — for a while, at least. Let the flood of emptiness rush over me, the words, the images — endless, unceasing. I can only sigh a little bit, cover up with a smile that I’ve convinced myself is genuine; it is genuine.

I’m thinking back to that autumn evening, hearing the music, the repetitive and generic ambience looming in the background, and then the foreground, seeing your face among the crowd, looking somewhere else across the room, and never at me. Yet now, that scene is full of vagueness, the details eroded by those couple months that have since past and my constant preoccupation with everything that has been going on. I can’t recall everything you told me that day, that night, but every so often, when the bustle of the world winds down a little, I can, among other things, pull myself back to that evening, and recollect. You tell me that you’re working on something big, I remember, with your jubilant smile, a gleam of sorts, your entire body is jittery with excitement and optimism. Come see me sometime, I told you, I’ll miss that excitement, that contagious happiness you had, and that I’d hope you still have.

Everything is quiet now; I hear only echoes of the day long gone and half-faded memories. Nighttime here is lonely, and desolate, in a way, with some sad sense of solitude, and I feel a strange sense of melancholy. But we all have to cope somehow, I suppose. So instead I’m imagining I’m at a park in the summer: the sun, shining, bright and warm, and the grass beautifully green and so soft. I’m sitting on a comfortable wooden bench, watching well-dressed and happy people walk by with their children and their pets, listening to their cheerful voices, listening to the birds singing and the bikes creaking, and you’ll sit next to me, without saying a word — just a glance at each other, a silent acknowledgement, and together we’ll look across the open field down a winding path lined with a grove of trees, to the colorful playground in the distance — and I’ll think that life is pretty good.