Wednesday, October 22, 2008

How to walk

I'm talking to my therapist from childhood, the one my parents made me see starting when I was 12, my sister and I are there together and I say: I know my father is dead, but he's still trying to kill me! The therapist says we didn't see each other for eight years, not eight years, what do you mean eight years? He says: if there's one thing your father was concerned about his whole life, it was truth.

I'm in a car with my father and I have to get out before he kills me, I run out of the car just before an intersection and crouch on the steps of a building around the corner, will he see my feet? He drives past and then I'm running through the aftermath of Pride, which is a food court that starts eight stories up, and when I finally get to the bottom I'm trying to describe my rage at my father to a friend who gets scared like I'm enraged at her. Alone, I finally get out of the maze that's the end of Pride and I'm surprised to find myself on the beach instead of at Civic Center -- at least I can see the ocean, fresh air. Then I step outside, onto the beach, piles and piles of hundreds of cigarettes and trash and broken glass poking into my feet this is the aftermath and the ocean comes in just as I’m trying to figure out how to walk.

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