Sunday, March 15, 2015

stubborn memory. the feeling before the story finds the page.

I'm eleven or so. It's fall.  I'm growing up in a sweet little college town -- Newark, Delaware -- on a dead end, literally. I'm alone in my front yard with absolutely nothing to do. No one else is out. A convertible appears at the top of our street, top down though it's a little cold for it. A young man is driving, wearing a sports coat, maybe a loose tie. It's a fast car, blaring California Dreaming, and he's driving way too fast especially as he's heading toward a dead end. He passes by and I kind of follow a few steps to see if he'll wreck. He cuts the wheel, the car swings around, and heads out as fast as before, kicking up leaves. The music fades and I'm alone again, feeling like I saw something that may or may not have happened -- no other witnesses. The strange thing is that I think of this moment often -- maybe three or four times a year. I'm sure the car wasn't his. I'm sure he was pissed off. I'm sure he really didn't have anywhere to go except just out of wherever he was. And maybe that's it -- he expressed some trapped restlessness, maybe even a creative restlessness, the feeling of a story that you don't understand and haven't yet started to tell.