Dreams used to come to me in which I was running so fast my feet did not touch the ground. Those dreams persisted well into adulthood. Sometimes it was nighttime. The streets were city streets, usually mostly deserted. Sometimes there were stairways, the kind you would find at one end of a small building. Always I was going down, not touching a single tread, landing with a sure thud at the bottom, shooting around for the next flight, then out onto the street. In fifth grade, we did timed racing in the fenced-in courtyard of our little red brick elementary school. Fifty yard dash. One morning, my gym teacher, whose name I don’t remember, asked me to run it again. He thought maybe his stopwatch was broken, he said. It seems I was fast. Where was I going in those dreams? Nowhere in particular, I don’t think. I just loved the speed, and that fine, unfettered sensation of absolute freedom. The photos in the contact sheet were taken in New Mexico, somewhere near Albuquerque. I loved New Mexico the instant I arrived there. How do we know if we’ve left a place too quickly? What would it cost to return?
Comments are closed.
|
Categories |