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17 April, 00:54

Identities by w. d. valgardson

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  1. 17 April, 01:51
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    Normally, he goes clean-shaven into the world, but the promise of a Saturday

    liquid with sunshine draws him first from his study to the backyard, from there to his

    front lawn. The smell of burning leaves stirs the memories of childhood car

    rides, narrow lanes adrift with yellow leaves, girls on plodding horses, unattended

    stands piled high with pumpkins, onions, or beets so that each one was, in its own way,

    a still life. Always, there were salmon tins glinting with silver, set above hand-painted

    signs instructing purchasers to deposit twenty-five or fifty cents. This act of faith

    containing all the stories he has read in childhood about the North - cabins left

    unlocked, filled with supplies for hapless wayfarers - wakes in him a desire to

    temporarily abandon the twice-cut yards and hundred-year-old oaks.

    He does not hurry for he has no destination. He meanders, instead, through the neat

    suburban labyrinth of cul-de-sacs, bays and circles, losing and finding himself endlessly.

    Becoming lost is made all the easier because the houses repeat themselves with

    superficial variations. There grows within him, however, a vague unease with

    symmetry, with nothing left to chance, no ragged edges, no unkempt vacant lots, no

    houses rendered unique by necessity and indifference.
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