What one can bring to bear on the transfer of memory emanates from that parka left hulking on the seat adjacent to one, from the girl sleeping, curled into the cupped seat with her earphones askew, from the voices which fail to be voices surrounding one but rise up as a sound one imagines the disquiet to be.
The objects which confronted me throughout the airport were involved in the business of life in a way which seemed unrecognizable to me, in way which made no sense or made too much sense.
People laughed and I bid the Furies to flay their bodies, to run bamboo threads under the skin of their backs and hoist them into the air.
I wanted to be in Florida with my father when he died, but I also wanted to look through the concourse window and see an augur of the naturalness of this, of the simplicity of this.
I wanted to feel as if I was in my own skin again. These things push us to our boundaries and further, perhaps this was a new skin.
I don’t know how to remember anything else. I boarded the plane.
