May 25, 2015


Tonight I drive alone to Portsmouth at sundown. I take myself to the movies. Sitting in the car park I get high before the film and talk to Nate Luce on the phone in between inhales. This warm voice, calling from a barn on Martha's Vineyard.

I see the screen adaptation of Far From The Madding Crowd and it feels indulgent, taboo even. To get so unabashedly lost in another world, my only desire. Rolling green hills, sheep, a farmstead. A heroine. I will not feel shame for feeling a fantasy. Another time and place, but one you've been through before, or perhaps one you will someday meet. Is that not why we are wont to drown in film?

I am one of four women in the theater, all of us alone together and meeting at the midweek. What do we share? Why tonight, you? I watch the screen and long for a braid that falls down my back with it's own echo. I imagine my own land.

In two days I will go to Rome to see my father. We have not seen one another or had contact beyond a postcard and a single exchange of letters in 15 years. I will take care of myself in my mother's home, holding fast to a steady flow of courage until its really time to go.

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