Those who could actually remember what happened at Whetland Gorge were long dead. By the time the tourists arrived in their sneakers and baseball caps, the story had been passed from guide to guide until it resembled truth like a raisin resembles a grape. The tourists listened and nodded sagely.
At first, their differences were pleasant friction. At his jazz club, she laughed, “His saxophone sounds broken!” At her movies, he teased, “That’s no Casablanca!” In time, she couldn’t abide the cacophony of his horns. He disdained her romantic comedies. Too much friction. They heated up, wore down, left broken.
You live in a constant state of lag, limited by the speed of your electrochemical pulses, sensing reality always a nanosecond behind. Everything you see has already happened. I live there, in the synapse, outside your perception. You’ve never seen me, but you know I exist. You call me magic.
Indelible
Thousands of neatly labeled microcassettes lined the walls of The Archive. Perplexed, Bruce randomly pulled, “Morning, July 8, 1982,” from a shelf. He recognized his handwriting. The realization came slowly. Here they were. His lost memories filled this closet from floor to ceiling. And he wept. Just like last time.
Illustrated by Jason Viola of ManateePower.com
Someone said, “Norwegian.” I was compelled to interrupt the conversation: I once had a girl, or should I say she once had me? You smiled deeply from across the room. The definition of personal compatibility is tolerance of your partner’s unique quirks and odd behaviors. To treasure them is love.
When the door opened at 14,000 feet, suddenly I was 11 years old, pedaling madly down the neighborhood’s steepest street, facing the wind, alive and fearless. I barely heard the jumpmaster’s shouted instructions. I remembered my bike stopped short. Momentum carried me over the handlebars. And then I was flying.
Illustrated by Jason Viola of ManateePower.com
Story originally published on June 30, 2011
When the door opened at 14,000 feet, suddenly I was 11 years old, pedaling madly down the neighborhood’s steepest street, facing the wind, alive and fearless. I barely heard the jumpmaster’s shouted instructions. I remembered my bike stopped short. Momentum carried me over the handlebars. And then I was flying.
The artist’s work served no purpose, spurred no action, incited no passions. The massive clay figure stood motionless. When the magician spoke the words, the golem came alive. And the artist lamented that he had lost control of his creation. But then he remembered: there’s no such thing as magic.
Illustrated by Jason Viola of ManateePower.com
Story originally published on May 23, 2011
If we unpack our memories and count our senses separately, our time together it might be stretched near to eternity. Replayed this time, the smell of her hair. Again, just seeing her half-smiles. But alas, we let every precious moment pass with the watch hand’s sweep behind the glass.
Photo by Nidhi Paul. View her Flickr photostream.
Story originally published on April 29, 2011
