Autumn remembers
I should write more, even when the voice is still and chooses to listen rather than to speak. I should write in order to remember.
It took me an entire day to recall a conversation I had with a woman - I didn't remember who, where, or how we came to talk about books. But I'd asked her if she read a lot, and what kinds of books she liked, and she said she read 'any old thing'. A little snatch of time that remained in my memory, void of any sense of colour or circumstance - I could not even recall her accent or her speech.
We seem to spend a lot of time in cafes, laying out thoughts and ideas over too-strong coffees (for me, at least), poking through histories and politics, writing on napkins, writing on walls of our minds and fine Japanese paper, stealing souls and light with our whirring cameras. We pace the streets, linger in bookstores and under branches of trees - I never know the names which he knows, but I know what they look like in spring.
Posted by sniffles at April 29, 2002 04:29 PM