to return to nostalgia and the idea of possibility.
The reception man at Motel Niantic was actually two. Two pint-sized men that, when stacked on top of each other, could form a fully sized man. I imagined tetris men as they stood side by side. The one on the left was mute and ever-nodding, agreeing enthusiastically to comments whispered to himself. The man on the right had skin so full of hair dark fuzz it looks like a pelt, a beaver pelt because he also had large yellow teeth like pozole corn kernels.
Beaverman told us our room had a balcony and he winked, like my lover and I were going to go do it on that balcony. We didn’t. From the balcony we saw the pool, gray with a fat child whinnying, splashing.
that is from when i used to be really into lomography. i have to fish out my camera and try some more. this is me now my toes still move that way, like french fries with minds of their own, or jelly fish tentacles that don’t know how to sting yet. my maternal abuela, wearing a clean white dress and clean white shoes in front of a dusty farm house. i imagine it has painted blue shutters. in galicia, they paint shutters and doors blue, green, red, leftover paint from the fishing boats. inside the house there is a bowl of fruit and cheese awaiting her, a pack of cigarettes. is that too expected? i’m probably wrong. what i do know is that there is no fridge in there, and no almond butter, no hemp milk, avocados, or cashews. but there are eggs, and the yolks are sun orange.