The price for such indulgence on this occasion has been more mosquito bites. My itching and scratching tonight shall be a reminder of my folly, swallowed like its object by the dusk that took the moment's haunted reality and replaced it with another. The palimpsest of fantasy is covered with yet another layer of commonplace time. The birds have all bedded down and the crickets' chirps have replaced theirs. The sky is barely lit and rapidly vanishing, like everything I've left behind, everywhere I've been and everywhere I haven't.
by J. Neil Garcia
The hardest part about moving house is not being able to move memory. It stakes its all ramrod straight into living room floor, nooses itself around banister, and yields nothing to the breathless budge away from bedroom post, kitchen window, brickbrown wall, or marble nick on sink and badly chipped tile in bathroom. Afflicted with motion-sickness, it will not travel well. And so one moves with all one can: personal computer, impersonal bed, stereo and television set, perishable items of books, poems, days, and clothes one wears upon one’s back. And one can only look back to memory’s dimly lit house where childhood first grew eyes and ears and never really learned to use them properly. Where the boy who lived in a closet all his life, knew all about how one should never lose faith in things one most loves, and yet wide-eyed and breathless still packed his bags and left.