an ornate stone staircase, almost hidden among trees, branches forming the ceiling of a forgotten tunnel. (Incongruously, a steel mailbox - is this route still active?) We discuss the nature of grief
The not-unpleasant degaussing grey-out zap in my brain that characterizes a stimulus-evoked absence seizure, brought on by stimuli as desperate as a particular shade of pink or the smell of warm popcorn kernels.
The ecstasy of dancing for the first time with no self-consciousness or fear, under the glow of jewel-toned LEDs and an open desert sky, in public, despite 6 years of classical ballet's best effort as a foundation for all creative movement to erase this ability.
The joy of teaching a small child through play. Explaining degrees of rotation as a way of understanding how things twist. Subtly quizzing my pupil while playing with Lego Transformers. He remembered 360 degrees the next morning.
The icy halo of a harvest moon at midnight, an opal on deep blue velvet scattered with soft diamonds, when all the world is silent, crusted with snow and glittering in its pale light.
The comfort of poisonous things; the rainbows in a spill of gasoline
the feeling in my nose when you tell me you miss him. Warm, like when a sparring partner lands a firm shot. It hurts, but we both wish it didn't and in both cases I'm sure its my pride that stings the most
Those 10 seconds that passed as I pretended nothing was wrong even though I knew I'd wake up on the floor gasping for air begging them not to call the paramedics
The flash of high velocity, in the mirror, when all should be coming to rest, cementing the moment, the milliseconds before POP!, the hang, like falling, the surprisingly cogent realization before the next POP!, the fog of time, becoming aware of the pain in your nose, the pain across your chest, is it structural?, the smoke from the airbag, is it poisonous?, can I move?, some words, check your spine, you get out, you made it
The scent, in the basement of a stranger's home, long familiar and long forgotten. A nursery, a blanket, a late '70s sanitizer? Comfort, a memory before memory, no descriptor, just safety and the earliest discoveries of the world's behaviors. Sniff hard, try to capture it, to uproot the ancient recollections attached. Close your eyes, chase it down, like a fresh dream already escaping. Nope, gone. Maybe an acid-flecked image of a place, the basement of a church off the town square, but it lives in the murk