Dream Log II
I stood in a park that was separated from the water by few park benches and a modest side-street. Despite incredible distance and fog, I could see all the way to the other side of the lake where a little girl perched atop a small cement wall. Her parents held her arms while her nervous excitement grew, preparing to jump into the softly undulating waves. It was a very happy scene.
I blink, and the little girl was already splashing and floating in her felicity with laughter like bells. She cut through the water like a swing through the air, her parents' hands securely gripping hers as she lurched and kicked.
Then I remembered a time that never actually happened. I turned--to my sister, who had apparently been witnessing the happy scene as well.
My mouth moved wordlessly, Remember when we played here?
She reflected, but No, it wasn't here. That was in Washington, where we played in the fountain.
Ah, my faulty memory. Where are we, then?
But I realized the answer before even realizing the question.
Chicago, of course.
. . .
Then there was a parade.
I had a massively bulky, red camera.
I gushed over every crevace of every building.
I swooned at the concrete giants' overlaps.
I froze in awe; a Red Victorian Building peeked out from behind two ordinarily staggering structures.
I froze, but I was still moving. The parade was still moving. My fingers fumbled to find the camera button. Finally, I took the picture, but it was all wrong. I wanted the Red Victorian Building in the picture to look exactly as the Red Victorian Building looked from my own eyes. And my own damn finger blocked the view.
I looked at the old man. He needed the picture, he needed to be in the picture, he needed to be with the building, because they both had wrinkles and weariness and history, and the old man, I think, was me. Because as much as I wanted him to be in the picture, with his passion, like magma, swelling under the surface, he couldn't be. Because you can't capture yourself from behind the lens.
I blink, and the little girl was already splashing and floating in her felicity with laughter like bells. She cut through the water like a swing through the air, her parents' hands securely gripping hers as she lurched and kicked.
Then I remembered a time that never actually happened. I turned--to my sister, who had apparently been witnessing the happy scene as well.
My mouth moved wordlessly, Remember when we played here?
She reflected, but No, it wasn't here. That was in Washington, where we played in the fountain.
Ah, my faulty memory. Where are we, then?
But I realized the answer before even realizing the question.
Chicago, of course.
. . .
Then there was a parade.
I had a massively bulky, red camera.
I gushed over every crevace of every building.
I swooned at the concrete giants' overlaps.
I froze in awe; a Red Victorian Building peeked out from behind two ordinarily staggering structures.
I froze, but I was still moving. The parade was still moving. My fingers fumbled to find the camera button. Finally, I took the picture, but it was all wrong. I wanted the Red Victorian Building in the picture to look exactly as the Red Victorian Building looked from my own eyes. And my own damn finger blocked the view.
I looked at the old man. He needed the picture, he needed to be in the picture, he needed to be with the building, because they both had wrinkles and weariness and history, and the old man, I think, was me. Because as much as I wanted him to be in the picture, with his passion, like magma, swelling under the surface, he couldn't be. Because you can't capture yourself from behind the lens.
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