Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Memory of Detroit-- Julie Paveglio


Sporadic clusters of movement, lines crossing unpredictably from distant shadows amidst vacant storefronts.  Gravel parking lots with broken glass and a city with a dying pulse.  Dirt and tiny pebbles rolled in my mouth, churning with saliva, compressed between teeth and piercing the nerves and the bones of my skull.  Nothing was pretty about this place.  The terror I felt coiling in my gut—Detroitthis place with these people.  I transitioned without awareness.  I was no longer conscious, eyes, limbs or tongue, no thought but some foreign awareness.  I was beyond the realm of seeing and thinking—I merely absorbed into everything around me.  Boundaries, definitions and space did not exist. It was unknown territory—it was no territory.  I was twenty times removed from my body, with a street view, but detached, floating, invisible to myself.  I couldn’t move—I didn’t want to move—I couldn’t move—I had nothing to move with.  I was a spec of dirt on the ground, a piece of paper discarded, motionless, peripheral, flattened and weathered, absorbed into the concrete and oozing, dripping molasses, down into layers of sediment, wires and archeology.  I heard myself speak in the distance.  I walked but I wasn’t responsible for my movements.  Limbs intertwined and supported by invisible strings pulled by masked people with no mouths, perched on the skinny ledges of tall buildings with blinking lights, tickling low lying coquet clouds dying for affection.

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