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the archive(s):
issue no. 4:
Five Mintues From Now This Is Not Progress / Ilya Zaychik
The ground is bleached a pale, dusty and desolate white-a film that does not come off. The pavement is cracked deep, reminding me of a lonely shoulder off a highway in Arizona I have never been to. Only it is cold. So cold, degrees lose all significance.
'What's the weather?' she asks.
'It's fucking cold,' I answer.
There is a mutual wavelength there; we both know what the weather is. Unbearably spectacular.
When I walk through the park, the snow swirls about me in misty dunes and my vision is obscured by tiny grains of white powder. My feet sink in the unstable mass; every step a struggle. I shield my face with my sleeve and I recall a dangerous trek through an Egyptian desert that I have never been on. I arrive out of breath.
'What's the matter?' she inquires.
'I was walking,' I reply.
She nods understandingly. We both know what the journey entails. Exhilarating vulnerability.
I have always done this. It really does not matter how little of my toes I can feel or how violently my crimson-cum-violet fingers are throbbing or how much mucus has dried on my face, I always stop. My shoelace is untied; I am not whole, I am blemished, I cannot continue. There are loose ends, flailing. How can I arrive in Arizona, then Egypt, with an untied shoelace? I approach new and distant lands with an ancient stubbornness to change.
This she is unable to comprehend. The wavelength has ruptured. The nod is an exasperated sigh and a defeated collapse into a nearby chair. Suddenly, solitary highway shoulders and desert voyages are as far away from us as the distances indicate.
'What's new?' she obliges.
'Nothing,' I concede, reaching for my boots.
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