"Escape Strategies," by G.C. Waldrep and John Gallaher
A kind of clarity rises, like leaving a room, going and coming back. It forms a narrative where the goal is to count the bodies, to make them into furniture.
And night falls where it may, with the private lives of individuals, where you don’t know what to do next, and maybe counting’s fine, but then, maybe not, maybe counting’s a mess and you’re on the very edge of something large rushing at you, though most of the time you know there’s nothing at all that large rushing at you.
Such thoughts. And look, he turns on his phone and he turns off his phone. “I’m sorry, my phone is ringing,” he says.
Some people enter, some keep entering. They’re sure they’re traversing a wide field. “I might die here,” they say. Or, “My father died here.”
You can count the doors and windows. You can tell yourself you’re working it out or that everything that ever frightened you is on the other side of an empty cage.
From "Ideal Boating Conditions," by G.C. Waldrep and John Gallaher
The wind shifts. The little boats go this way and that in the harbor. You watch them.
Somewhere on board each of the boats is a mirror, from which you watch yourself watching the boats. The self you’re going to be sends postcards back to the self you are now, only the self you are now won’t get them until it’s too late, until you’re different.
You think the part of you that is out there, in the harbor, must be happier than you are now.