Thu, 19 May 2005

you’ll never know dear how much i love you
She subscribed to one of those services where every morning a newspaper from a different city appears on your doorstep. There is a limited version of this service, strictly US/Canada, but she splurged for the full package, and on the mornings the paper arrived written in a language she could not understand she was content to look at the pictures, small smudged clouds which must once have signified discrete objects. Some newspapers had no pictures at all, just rows and rows of angular text, and here she contented herself to see images in the negative space within what was to her white noise, certain that the true meaning would manifest in a form she could understand. This was the single axiom of her belief system: an answer will come in time. Today it was a German paper, and she tried to remember what little high-school Deutsch she had left in her, so that short phrases — “around the corner”, “one hundred automobiles”, “the Berlin laundromat-road” — fell upwards to her, rising from the rest of the text, from the same smudgy images that could be from anywhere, of anything, except one, on the back page, larger than the rest, which she thought looked like her, when she was younger, maybe just after college. But different, obviously not her. Right? How could it be her?
(12:26.05.19.2005) [/scrytch] #