Despertar

dreams in digital

Nothing ever finishes happening to me till I find some way to record it. That's why I have so many crazy journals; not for the sake of analysis or to give body to my conscience, but because I've never known the point of living, of experiencing any feeling or event, without finding some way to capture it, to add it to my collection. Like a marble in a vase.

*

I kept a file folder of all things Marcus. Christmas cards he sent me, a collage we made together, a swatch of wrapping paper left over after someone's birthday. The folder was translucent and blue and traveled with me everywhere. All forty-eight trips between Atlanta and Washington, I tucked it carefully into the side pocket of my carry-on and always unpacked it first, for no reason I can imagine now.

Every single thing in that folder lost all value That Day, but has been regaining it, slowly, ever since.

*

I can't take a decent picture to save my life. It's terrible, because I get so frustrated trying to inject meaning into non-artistic mementos. Some photographic prowess would perfect my life, I think. I would make prints of everything good and paper my walls with them.

Once, at Atlantic Station, I happened to have my (old, bad) digital camera along the day the pink tulips came into bloom in the landscape boxes. Tulips are my favorite flower, these gorgeous, creamy, edible-looking, living, candied cups, and in pink they are incredible confections, but like all flowers, they die. Just thinking about it, the fact that the next time I visited Atlantic Station they'd be gone, filled me with panic till I remembered i had my camera in my purse.

I got down on my knees and took pictures till my memory card gave out. Fifty, sixty, from all angles. In one shot, I got them from the ground up, their leaves and petals tilted toward a just-out-of-frame light source. I took my shitty camera to shitty CVS and made shitty fifteen-cent prints, as many as I had the cash to afford.

I wanted to give them to everyone I loved. I remember thinking it was the most beautiful image I had ever seen, and that everyone who received one would finally know what the inside of my soul looked like. I think I even bought a couple of shitty frames for people I thought would be into that kind of thing.

And then, for some reason, I didn't give away a single one. I don't know where they are. I probably shoved them in the blue folder.

*

That's something that's different this time. I don't have anything Justin.

I have the bottle from our cheap Valentine's Day wine, and in it, the dead stem of a rose someone else gave me. It looks like something out of The Addams Family.

There's nothing to have. We do things digitally now. I don't even know what his handwriting looks like.

Does this mean I'm getting better?