raquellereyes:

Savannah Historic District.

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boxoftheskyking:

More Etgar Keret. This is gorgeous. 1,035 words of heartbreaking beauty.

I think you should read it.

From: Etgar Keret. “Sidewalks.” The Girl on the Fridge. Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, New York: 1992. Translated from Hebrew by Miriam Shlesinger and Sondra Silverston.

Sidewalks

I arrived a week later, the way I always do. I never come on the actual date. I did go to the funeral and to the first memorial, but with all those people staring, the firm handclasps, the mother smiling at me teary-eyed and asking me when I was finishing my degree–I said fuck it. The date itself doesn’t mean much to me anyway, though it’s an easy one to remember: December 12, the twelfth day of the twelfth month.

Ronen’s sister is a doctor at Beilinson Hospital, and she was on duty the moment your heart stopped. I heard Ronen tell Yizhar that you died at the stroke of noon. Like, on the dot.

Ronen got all worked up about it: “On the twelfth of the twelfth at twelve. Do you realize what the odds are?” he whispered so loud that everyone could hear. “It’s like an omen from Heaven.”

“Incredible,” Yizhar muttered. “If he’d stuck around another twelve minutes and twelve seconds, I bet they’d have issued a stamp in his honor or something.”

It really is easy to remember–the date, I mean–and the street sign we stole together on Yom Kippur. And that retarded boomerang they brought you from Australia, the one we used to throw in the park when we were kids and it never came back. Every year I come and stand beside the grave and think back, remembering something else each time, remembering very clearly. We’d each had five beers, and then you did another three shots of vodka. I was feeling pretty okay that night. Tipsy, but okay. You? You were shitfaced. We left the pub for your place, a few hundred meters away. We were wearing those gray raincoats we’d bought together at the pedestrian mall. You were pretty wobbly, and you knocked into a phone pole with your shoulder. You took a step back and stared–bemused is how you looked. I shut my eyes, and the blackness of my lowered eyelashes swirled together with the dark vapors of the alcohol. I tried to picture you far away from me, in a different country, say, and the thought scared me so much that my eyes snapped open, just in time for me to see you take another unsteady step and tip over backward. I caught you just before you hit the ground, and you smiled at me with your head tilted back, like a kid who’s discovered a new game.

“We won,” you told me, as I helped you up. I had no idea what you were talking about. Then we took a few more steps and you did it again, deliberately this time. You just let your body drop forward, and I grabbed you by the coat collar, a tenth of a second before your face hit the sidewalk.

“Two-zip,” you said and leaned against me. “We’re good. The sidewalks haven’t got a chance.”

We kept walking toward your house, and every few steps you let yourself drop to the sidewalk, and every time I’d catch you–by the belt, by the waist, by the hair. Never letting you touch the ground. “Six-zip,” you said, and then “Nine-zip.” The game kicked ass, and so did we. We were unbeatable.

“Let’s hold them at zero,” I whispered in your ear, and that’s just what we did. By the time we reached your house, we’d scored an amazing twenty-one to nothing. We entered the building, leaving the humiliated sidewalks behind us. Your roommate was there in your apartment, sitting up and watching TV.

“We fucked them up,” you said as we walked in, and he rubbed his eyes behind his glasses and said we looked like shit. I was about to wash my face, but before I even made it to the sink I threw up in the bathtub. I heard you screaming in the hallway that you weren’t about to piss in that configuration. I came out of the bathroom and saw you staggering, with your pants down to your knees.

“I’m not going to piss with you holding me up,” you told your roommate. “You I don’t trust. Only him. I want him to hold me,” you said, pointing at me. “Only him.”

“It’s nothing personal,” I said and smiled at the roommate. “It’s just that we have lots of practice.” I helped you up by the waist.

“You’re fucking insane.” The roommate shook his head and went back to his show. You finished pissing. I threw up another time. On the way to your bed, you fell once more, and I caught you, just barely, and both of us fell to the floor. “I knew you’d catch me,” you said and laughed.

“Look,” you said and tried to get up again. “I’ve lost my fear of falling. My fear of falling’s gone.”

There are these two kids here at your grave, aiming their tennis ball at the tombstones. I think I’ve figured out the rules: if the one they hit is an officer’s they get a point. If it’s a cadet’s, it’s a point for the cemetery. They hit your tombstone, and the ball rebounded right into my hand. I caught it. One of the kids walked toward me apprehensively.

“Are you the guard?” I shook my head. “So, can we get our ball back?” He took another step in my direction.

I handed him the ball. He moved up closer to the tombstone, squinting at it.

“SFC,” he called out to his friend, who was standing a ways away.

“What’s SFC?” the faraway one asked. The one with the ball shrugged.

“Excuse me,” he asked. “Is SFC an officer or just a normal soldier?” “An officer, of course,” I said. “It stands for Super First Commander.”

“Yes!” he shouted and hurled the ball high in the air. “Eight-seven!” His friend came running and yelled, “We beat the gravestones! We beat the gravestones!” and the two of them started jumping and yelling like they’d just taken the world championship, or better.

tuesdays.

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annaxmalina:

[30mar17] 154\365: experimenting (12o film, fomapan 4oo pushed to iso 8oo, double exposure, scanned negative, laser print)

Fortesa Latifi (via madgirlf)

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Maxwell Diawuoh , NaPoWriMo Day 6 - Love (via wnq-writers)

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Trista Mateer, excerpt from “In Which Jordan Poremski Is Just A Boy” (via tristamateer)

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W.H. Auden, from The English Auden: Poems, Essays & Dramatic Writings, 1927-1939; “The Two,”
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Marie Howe, from Magdalene: Poems; “What The Silence Says,”
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Fortesa Latifi (via madgirlf)

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