Archives for August, 2010

Willing as I was, I just couldn’t accept such an absolute certainty. Because after all, the actual sentence which had established it was ridiculously out of proportion with its unshakeable persistence ever since the moment when that sentence had been passed. The fact that the sentence had been read out at eight o’clock rather than at five o’clock, and the fact that it might have been completely different, and that it had been decided upon by men who change their underwear, and that it had been credited to so vague an entity as the French (or German, or Chinese) people, all these things really seemed to detract considerably from the seriousness of such a decision.

– Albert Camus, The Outsider (trans. Joseph Laredo).

I slide open the sliding door to the backyard to relay a message from my mother to my kid brother, and then stand there in the doorframe, just stand there in the late afternoon for a while. It’s almost almost about to rain. What the almost feels like is that moment after you’ve first met someone you want to meet again and again, the moment after you’ve had your first and unremarkable conversation, the soft lowslung thrill of mutual recognition when you look at each other, that feeling of still anticipation before it turns into gutchurning nausea. The sun is warm on my face, and alongside it the breeze is cool, almost cold, sneaking promises of rain up my sleeves, like fingertips before they become kisses.

I am going to pay dearly for this one of these days, but dear god, how I love leaving places.