We ran, down the flights, out to the street below, looking up at the sky, I was reminded of another night, only this time there was something specific,
A neighbor poking his head above his fence—"did you hear the explosion? there was an explosion. and all the lights went out."
"Yes," we answered.
I scribble notes, I scribble inane comments like "now I am writing so that the professor won't call on me..."
Only because I do not like to summarize.
I do not think stories ought to be explained away with abouts.
Everybody discussed the Hemingway story and I wanted them to stop, because it means something to me.
I slept in ripped tights; I do not remember that happening before.
We had thought, for an exciting moment, that it was something to do with the President and a movie star neighbor. We still don't understand the point of the circling spotlight. I was catching it on film, in case. I had grabbed my phone before we rushed down, in case. It was only when we returned that I realized my quickly thrown-on dress was inside out.
Below, the second-floor neighbors who I bother with my music: the Frenchman with dreads, the blonde actor, the deaf man, all looking up and pointing, and exclaiming, and I looked down and we waved and said hello, before all going back to the sky.
I called my brother, who listened to the police reports. Nothing, he said. Either they've got it offline now or they've switched to a private channel, he said. Which would've made sense, except it wasn't the case. I can say with mostly certainty that the things not easily defined are the things I find most valuable.
I will read for an hour or two about the black and white circus and then perhaps I will have energy for cereal, dancing, and washing my hair.
A neighbor poking his head above his fence—"did you hear the explosion? there was an explosion. and all the lights went out."
"Yes," we answered.
I scribble notes, I scribble inane comments like "now I am writing so that the professor won't call on me..."
Only because I do not like to summarize.
I do not think stories ought to be explained away with abouts.
Everybody discussed the Hemingway story and I wanted them to stop, because it means something to me.
I slept in ripped tights; I do not remember that happening before.
We had thought, for an exciting moment, that it was something to do with the President and a movie star neighbor. We still don't understand the point of the circling spotlight. I was catching it on film, in case. I had grabbed my phone before we rushed down, in case. It was only when we returned that I realized my quickly thrown-on dress was inside out.
Below, the second-floor neighbors who I bother with my music: the Frenchman with dreads, the blonde actor, the deaf man, all looking up and pointing, and exclaiming, and I looked down and we waved and said hello, before all going back to the sky.
I called my brother, who listened to the police reports. Nothing, he said. Either they've got it offline now or they've switched to a private channel, he said. Which would've made sense, except it wasn't the case. I can say with mostly certainty that the things not easily defined are the things I find most valuable.
I will read for an hour or two about the black and white circus and then perhaps I will have energy for cereal, dancing, and washing my hair.
3 comments:
This is artistry. Thank you, Erin.
You are genius! This is so beautiful and intriguing!
Erin, I just finished Books 1&2 of The Hunger Games trilogy and I'm trying to organize my opinions. Have you read them yet? I'd love to hear your thoughts.
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