Memories of heat.
Daylight and artificial light. Empty camera flash and the warm sunshine. The buzz of bees and the hum of fluorescent lights.
The tree in front of my house, exploding in red flames as it’s struck by lightning. It split in two and died.
From that house, I would walk to the apartments or go to the playground until the sun set. St. Augustine grass and the white sand. The black and grey asphalt, and my skinned hands and knees.
Climbing on the concrete tunnel at the playground. They kept adding other plastic things to the playground over the years, but they kept the tunnel, too.
Standing inside the concrete tunnel as a kid, back when I could still stand in it, my little bowl-cut head an inch, maybe half an inch, from the hard grey. Thinking about jumping, just out of curiosity. Just wondering what would happen.
The moment before the jump. “I’m gonna do it!” I tell my little kid brain that. It isn’t me, for a split second. I’m testing.
White-hot, trapped animal shock
sees two exits
but no real way out.
You keep going or you stop.
The past rings nostalgic,
the future buzzes bad faith.
You can’t stand up all the way.
The present is ceaseless, sublime.
A valuable jewel
that sustains.
Just for a little while,
I’m listening
and watching myself write.
More about: drøne, Mark van Hoen, Mike Harding
