Time is a color-shifting jelly. They move through it slowly, achieving new positions in which they stay suspended until another change is forced. He answers certain knocks at the door and certain phone calls. He addresses what he can address, and then breaststrokes his way back to her.
Two thousand years after her people left Jerusalem and eighty years after they left Turkey and fifty years after they left Poland and twenty-nine years after the death of her daughter, the woman walks down the desert road and she feels her body letting go of her.
Presumably, we’d all once found something magic in making art—why else were we taking this class? Yet no one ever described the joy they felt in witnessing something beautiful. All of Elliott’s prints were beautiful. It was as simple as that.
To be honest, I don’t quite know what to write: I love you, Simon? No autopsy, please? Humanity blows? None of these seems substantial enough for a statement of such finality.
Sometimes I try “to get my shit together.” I scour job listings and training programs. When that fails, I remind myself that getting older is a matter of compromise.