Secret Pop

Apr 4, 2005

things which are not yet and things which are no more

The music in The Shawshank Redemption makes me want to cry. Make an ill-advised phone call. Travel back in time. Sit somewhere in the past for longer than time ever took. I am vulnerable to reminders. I am an easy lock for picking.

I don't know what it is that's so appealing about looking back. Ruminations on the loss of innocence. A desire for a simpler time. A simpler self. It all sounds like so much chit chat in a retirement home. I never called it a "horseless carriage." There isn't so much of my history to miss. But then my card catalog seems larger because I file things without abbreviating. I hang onto stunning amounts of detail. I record to stultifying levels. People pretend to admire it. But I'm sure -- when they go off and have their day -- they shake their heads and wonder how a girl manages to have so much time on her hands and motor in her fingers. I am not like other people. In certain very specific ways. My teeth are buzzing with meaning.

I made excuses for my dramatic entrance. And my lateness. I put a smile on it. I was nervous. Not myself. I wanted these secrets and kept them close. Even now, I stop myself from speaking them. As long as I'm not speaking, I can hear my footsteps. I can hear the grit in the sidewalk. I can keep from stammering out of breath and feeling suddenly foolish. I can save myself the memory of shame.

When I go places we've gone together, I kiss the ghosts of kisses there.

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