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A blog dedicated to those who have passed on.
Saturday, August 14, 2004
I.
I don't know how long I've been trying to get to her. I have been walking up Interstate 95 northbound this whole time. I remember waking up in Miami and deciding to return to her. The air was as thick as the water that engulfed the city. My family slivered to me and told me it was futile. That no one returns north. I sat at the table and said that Aeneas had, that Odysseus had, and that Dante had. They just chewed on their moldy bread. My great-grandfather said that all those people were fictional. I said that that didn't matter because so were we.
II. "There's got to be a way back," I said while eating with a group of friends. "Shit," Pedro said, "how long have we been here." "It doesn't matter," I replied. "What year is this?" Marcos asked. "That matters even less," I muttered.
III. Aristos said that he had an uncle whose cousin made it back up north. The trip back took ages he said. "So this guy up and decides to go back one day because he's sick of this empty sun and barren moon. He hated his cardboard city full of forgotten celebrities and incarerated tourists," he continued. There is a process, a pattern. There was some mention of a special visa that can only be stamped at a precise hour. There was also the need for blood. Always with the blood, which is impossible to get these days with the embargo and all that. Then it hit me. "What about I-95?" I asked. Aristo's fuzzy left eyebrow went up. "It's closed to vehicles," he noted. "But not to pedestrians," I replied. "Who the hell walks on the expressway?" he shot back. "Exactly," I said as I mentally began to pack.
IV. There is a path back there. You have to walk south through the silence. You have to lash yourselve to a make-shift raft make the the rubber substance of the souls of your ancestors. You need to fill a crytal jar full of the tears you cried when your hopes were lost that night under the dwindling stars. You must drift away for a thousand years. You will get there only when you can see yourself on the shore looking out at your past.
I don't know how long I've been trying to get to her. I have been walking up Interstate 95 northbound this whole time. I remember waking up in Miami and deciding to return to her. The air was as thick as the water that engulfed the city. My family slivered to me and told me it was futile. That no one returns north. I sat at the table and said that Aeneas had, that Odysseus had, and that Dante had. They just chewed on their moldy bread. My great-grandfather said that all those people were fictional. I said that that didn't matter because so were we.
II. "There's got to be a way back," I said while eating with a group of friends. "Shit," Pedro said, "how long have we been here." "It doesn't matter," I replied. "What year is this?" Marcos asked. "That matters even less," I muttered.
III. Aristos said that he had an uncle whose cousin made it back up north. The trip back took ages he said. "So this guy up and decides to go back one day because he's sick of this empty sun and barren moon. He hated his cardboard city full of forgotten celebrities and incarerated tourists," he continued. There is a process, a pattern. There was some mention of a special visa that can only be stamped at a precise hour. There was also the need for blood. Always with the blood, which is impossible to get these days with the embargo and all that. Then it hit me. "What about I-95?" I asked. Aristo's fuzzy left eyebrow went up. "It's closed to vehicles," he noted. "But not to pedestrians," I replied. "Who the hell walks on the expressway?" he shot back. "Exactly," I said as I mentally began to pack.
IV. There is a path back there. You have to walk south through the silence. You have to lash yourselve to a make-shift raft make the the rubber substance of the souls of your ancestors. You need to fill a crytal jar full of the tears you cried when your hopes were lost that night under the dwindling stars. You must drift away for a thousand years. You will get there only when you can see yourself on the shore looking out at your past.
