Saturday, September 11, 2004

dust

this long after leaving, i still am clinging to the little things i've let the desert leave on my outer life; the sand on my car, the polaroids in my purse, and even some of the bags ride around with me, as though the road trip still has not yet been completed. I look again at the pictures, physical in my purse and prone to its dust, and marvel that i actually was there. the photos look more and more alien as time goes by, as though of a movie set. no wonder we marveled every day at our surroundings, we inhabitants out there; it is like nothing we know, and yet we live it for a week, and yet still, even by its end, it remains, nothing we can imagine or see with our mind's eye, without it standing in front of us every morning. i look again and again at my few pictures, they're feeling fewer and fewer and more and more skimpy to the truth as time goes on, and i look back into them more and more seldomly... the older life is still changed; i can see it in the way things feel now-- unlike the former panic, the former noise-- the sun itself is changed, and with it, everything it casts as photon-shadows to the brain...

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