__ spent the years of __ childhood in a very little town, a town that, when __ mind tries crawl back to it as __ remember it seems to have been nothing at all; not really a town, but a camp or a scientific experiment. Is there anything there? __ don’t know. Yet, as __ remembrance hobbles, back bent, through the dark decay of memory’s corriders to collect the bits of the little town, __ remember rigid order, like geometric shapes. Tired, dull shapes that lazily brighten and then float from the darkness, expanding and retracting like coughs of saw dust or the bursts of weak electricity. And then __ remember, first the children, and they materialize from the blackness of __ mind to slowly float down to their positions on the street. One by one, they solidify and the contours of their bodies become distinguishable—but only partially, for they all, without exception, are clothed in canvas sacks. __ am puzzled, indeed. Why should the all of the children choose to take part in their gambols while costumed in sacks meant to hold manure or vegetables that come from the dirt? Was the little town so destitute? Of course, __ don’t recall. No, the children were not so poor at all—watch them in their merry capering as they disappear and reemerge from dusty alleyways, a confederation of swarming botflies.
No comments:
Post a Comment