Essays and rock & roll. Looking and listening. Nostalgia versus skepticism.
Friday, June 24, 2011
I'm sitting on a bench in front of an unrecognizable building that housed my kindergarten. I used my phone's GPS to guide me here. Cause and effect: the Slurpee I had earlier burned like acid, because the Baskin-Robbins has closed. Optical delusion: the roads are narrower. I expect homeowners to de-restore their homes to honor my sorry past? (Where's that house?) I expect homeowners to let ruins surround them so that I can see homes as they weren't. Please, decay. I don't recognize a soul. The woods are still there. The half-assembled car still sits in that yard. The old beer store remains; I see it from across the street as I stand in front of an uninhabited new storefront. I'm sitting on a bench reading on my phone a Facebook group devoted to the fact that my hometown has dissapeared. Hundreds of far-flung strangers opining on loss. Everything's changed. I go for walks after dinner, and nothing changes. If only I could lift the transparencies laid on top. As the poet said, I have wasted my life.