Why can’t he call it, or see it? I mean it is all there, and he has this eye for it… he tries to document it with the words and always wanted to be a part of the word camp. That exclusive camp. He was good at art, he was good at film but those are all for people that can’t talk. He can talk, god he can talk that is the only way he moves himself into positions of survival almost like he is holding out.
Perhaps it is a secret place.
Like this bubble that you are always trying to get into.
And all the girls he has ever met until he met her and trying to become himrself new at the age of 34 is like trying to wear glasses for the first time.
Why would you lie? He said to himself while listening to paul simon.
Hey, hey, hey…there was a Jamaican like beat, a vampire weekend.
It is odd he said, merging all these documents. The one where he shot the girl sleeping with your old camera, and the snowy mountains. The one where the camera is inside of the fridge and he opens it for the first time and huffed upon it’s frosty lens. The exhaust of years.
Better perhaps all the videos of his son, like the one where he scared the shit out of him or the one where he couldn’t light a match on his father’s boat, the one where we listened to the stokes, or the one when we thought about the stars.
The one where Chris was beginning and the one where he was ending and not trying hard enough. The one where we are in Todd inlet and laughing perhaps with the the last time of his father.
You know he asked his father about it… “how come I fail, how come chris succeeds?” His father told him it was a long race.
A long race
He takes a picture, he writes a poem and films. You will all get me in the long run, I just need a little time.
His dad is still his dad, and oysters are still oyster and cold, his son is still his son, chris is still chris and they all showed up to the wedding…
He put the camera inside of the fridge, and it looked so funny opening it all up like he could open the world up and eat it like a pack of sardines.
|