p
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writings about
walking around
,
the prom
,
and
moving forward
.
     Gwen and I used to stake out the lift late at night, after
everyone else had gone to bed.  We’d sit on the floor and ride it
up and down, doing shots of vodka or something with a hint of
cinnamon.  The lights on the instrumentation panel were all burned
out, a situation that I would later personally rectify, and so, after
a few such shots, there was no way to tell if the lift was moving
save for waiting for the doors to open.  It was a dangerous habit,
gambling as we did that Schubert would not stumble upon us, but we
did not much concern ourselves with such dangers.  There was something
about that lift, late at night, which drew us.  The confined space forced
us, sitting on the floor, into close proximity with each other.  The up and
down movement, both real and imagined, played on our senses and
confronted us with their ultimate unreliability.


Father, 05/25/01

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