SENSORY MEMORY.

I'm squeezing time out of these lost last days and I have a little over a month to:

rescue my school work

take a bike trip weekend in Poland

visit a small town or two
savor friendships
go photo-taking
attend a concert at the philharmonie
see all of those great architecture pieces one simply must see
buy kitschgo to as many galleries as possible

THERE ISN'T ENOUGH TIME TO ENJOY IT.

THERE IS TOO MUCH TIME TO WAIT.

I keep having quick flashes of intense sensory memories that make me feel like I am in Kansas City or Lawrence. They make me feel as though, at least mentally, I am living two places at once.

SMELL: storm through a dusty window screen
SMELL: mattress cover stored under my bed
SOUND: cicadas

TASTE: air on a drive past a prescribed burn

TASTE: clover honey and sourdough

Because when these things happen, things which are so place-specific, I can't ignore them. They say that smells conjure memory, but no one ever talks about the influence of memories on smell. Because when your brain actually re-creates a smell, it creates an irrational longing, and I can no longer passively keep tabs on what's going on back home. I'm struck for the first time since july with this feeling of being left out, of not knowing what's coming, of surely leaving an unmade bed behind me. This is the farthest north I've ever been for a summer solstice; the sun rises around 4:30 and sets around 21:30, but there just couldn't possibly be enough time in these long days for all of the things which clearly must be done.

I CANNOT AFFORD TO SPEND HOURS

LOST IN MY OWN INACCESSIBLE CITY.

There are drawings and friends to be made. It's like being on the regional train, except that after an hour of staring out the window, I get off right where I got on.

PLACE AND DISPLACEMENT

In Delphi, I took a self-timed photo of "Me + Ruins In Delphi." I tried to make myself feel like I was visiting the Oracle. I always ask myself if the Greeks vividly understood religion as a human construct and just kept it around 'cause it's fun. The stories are just too wild. How could you make yourself believe that was real life?

...

Eating on dumpsters in a crowd of East End hipsters, we congratulated ourselves on our ability to not appear just like eachother.

...

Dear Dean Gaunt, I liked it a lot when you really listened to what I had to say. We were in Germany, I was talking about braided grass, and you looked me in the eye.

...

I was completely unable to feel what Copenhagen is like, but I could have explored this dorm complex for years and still had more to discover.

...

At our awkward table in our front hallway, are Atypical Actions and Typical Fixtures, alongside a sizable shoe collection. Sarah Studer's pretty good at all of these things. Endless curiosity. (Come home soon.)

...

I can't stop thinking about Willa Cather. "She laughed her mellow, easy laugh, that was either very artless or very comprehending, one never quite knew which." I hope that someone will describe me one day like this.

I wasn't there when they took this photo.



...

Jo and I sat on benches in a cultural center in London and were quite puzzled by this book on Afghanistan. The project was to show the wisdom and flexibility of words. Ask a question, close your eyes, pick a book, open and point. Read the sentence. This is your answer.

Camels in a Datsun.



...

Charlie, seller of maps and globes, stands in Haus am Checkpoint Charlie.

...

Before I rearranged the furniture, this room was still Terry's.

...

To give me a time machine would be lonely. To give me a teleporter would be cruel. When I pick out photos and phrases and stories, all of the dead time disappears. All of the non-activities and non-places fade out. Before and after this coffee pouring, there was couch sitting. The front door was open. We mixed fresca and pbr and cooked corned beef. It made a stew that fed lots of people. Looking at this picture feels like eating candy. It's a house slowly waking up and wandering into the kitchen, rubbing their scalps. I can't remake this. Who would want to?

I MISS IT SO MUCH. But then I remember the mice and never being able to find things and the way the house sucked me in and my funny futon and the war of attrition that was the kitchen table.

...

These things are all so small. These things are so big.

I don't get you, wall at the elementary school in Slovenia.