Just like strolling inside an abandoned house, chambry’s “de temps en temps” gives off that sense of displacement and familiarity all mixed together. Like you’ve been there before even if you haven’t. Like the coughs, clinging bells, hesitant keyboard melodies, rusty and skittish hi-hats, and other mild percussion clanks are actual banisters you once slid down after your dad hollered up to you that the waffles were ready. Sunshine belts green and blue hues through the glass windchime you made for your grandma from old bottles found at flea markets. You can hear it in this house. An oval view to see the past that never happened. A past being told with such clarity and good-natured embellishment that you begin to believe it did happen, that it was all real and true. That the bird chirps are real. That the virtual grass and stars and crow caws are real. That the butterflies and rain are just as real as the skin flaking off your right thumb as you slowly pick at it with your other thumb.
Erosion of place. Small views. Sometimes. Who’s to say what’s happened and what hasn’t?