No 5: ON SPACES
PHOTO BY LUCIA AUERBACH
LUCIA AUERBACH
In the places of my mind lay the environments written by posthumous authors who will never know my name. I dissociate into their literary worlds to escape my own academic, socialite prison.
I see Woolf tracing her fingers over the bench holes contemplating her position in the painting of feminine representation as I tear at my fingers over and over again wondering why I ever painted them pink.
I gaze at a boat named Destiny, imagining myself sailing across the sea with an orange pirate hat, fighting windmills like Don Quixote. His imagination gave him room to escape.
There’s an indented entryway into a building with no purpose. It’s small and cramped and I want to lay there on a couch made of cement and sleep my way into insanity so maybe I’d have something to talk to Raskolnikov about.
A table with three chairs sits empty, begging for a trio to come enjoy a meal. I think I could mediate Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy’s love. Maybe they argue now about the kitchen table and which dish should go where. I’d steer them in the direction to debate the purpose of letters instead.
Four lights hang above me on the terrace of a boat. They flicker on and off again, as the boat is ready to take flight. I used to dream of flying. Yet now, I am happy I stuck my feet to the floor.
Cars attempt to speed past me. The drivers look with a concerning stare as I shove my camera lens into their license plates. Machado de Assis would say that every soul in those cars are experiencing their own chapter. And mine, my dear, began this past Fall. Fear floats in my cells; I’d rather this section not end.
And yet, a small seagull sits perched on the Hudson. My eyes focus and zone in on its beak. And like Vuong, I am transported back to my childhood. My mother and I are laying on the beach as a flock of seagulls circle above our heads. They chirp in harmony and we laugh with glee.
I grow tired and my legs weak. Walking up 42nd street, there is a building until the others. It remains in its historic New York facade, unafraid of the giant skyscrapers surrounding its every side. I don’t know what it feels like to look different than the people I see on TV, or in magazines, or on billboards. But Rankine tries to tell me. I sympathize. I learn how to do better in silence.
My world is a highway full of chaos. Languages pass by my ears every day, loud house music makes me go deaf, and my friends' laughs keep me standing. But the printed words I read, those are the spaces that I remember.
