as a kid it didn’t really occur to me that movies were made, everything just emotion, dense and coming, clambering onto the surge of the brass. the only way through was to watch until the unbearable treble smacked familiar and insistent, denser, a fuller pop under the thumb, the loop-de-loop arm of the counselor, lohan’s twist of a frown, the hat with a veil on the bride.
we pierced my second hole with a hot needle and an apple. leah ran downstairs because she’d forgotten the ice cube. we were 15 by then, probably hadn’t watched the movie in a long time. a time-before-then, increasingly; the old rituals splitting the edges more clearly. the same macaroni, the same. we drew tattoos all over three barbies. my piercing oozed for years, bad side of my face, twisting bursts of dingy white.
it was strange to watch the 1961 version, the uglier twin: even more egregiously white, even more overtly pro-nuclear family. strange to watch it veer close to familiar, the father left alone on his swinging horse, the pranking honey on the arms, the pranking lizard on the bottle, the twins crossing their fingers in Xs over their chests.
we sat in the pantry with oreos and peanut butter. it was one of the last summers. we jumped on the wet floor, washed our hair in the rain like my mom had. noses insistent in our grandfather’s chest, saying it twice, in both versions, “making a memory!” “making a memory!” “[smells his jacket again] peppermint and pipe tobacco.” “tobacco and peppermint.” the same girl facing herself, the seam of the door; we three in a closet with a clanking wooden puppet. we always said we’d have met anyway, even in another version, feet in the dirt on the swing.
in this version, the dad’s girlfriend is the dad’s girlfriend’s mother. this twin hums the song the others sang on the porch. in both versions, their mothers wear – their mother wears the button-up with breast pockets to not go camping. in both, your appetite – “your appetite has changed.” but it’s not the same without chessy’s crumbling growl, voice like thick cake stuck to the palette. the actress had twins the same day the twin lindsays were born, october 11th, eight days after october 3rd, lohan a twin of herself through time in a week.
i avoid seeing actors where they are now, loosening resonances, having existed now outside of my memory. he was at jon’s chapbook launch, outside of my memory, a boy who had lived in our sister house in first year. kate recognized him right away (kate, whom i met around the same time; black collar, white daisy, lines diverging; we walk now in our same orange tuques and i try to make eye contact with other oranges so that they know we are three) but not me, not until i looked at him straight on and saw his same ears, tucked behind a beard, glasses, an orange tuque. an orange tuque. we didn’t remember each other’s names. we looked at each other like turning and taking off fencing helmets.
as a kid it didn’t really occur to me that movies were made, everything just emotion, dense and coming, clambering onto the surge of the brass. the only way through was to watch until the unbearable treble smacked familiar and insistent, denser, a fuller pop under the thumb, the loop-de-loop arm of the counselor, lohan’s twist of a frown, the hat with a veil on the bride.
we pierced my second hole with a hot needle and an apple. leah ran downstairs because she’d forgotten the ice cube. we were 15 by then, probably hadn’t watched the movie in a long time. a time-before-then, increasingly; the old rituals splitting the edges more clearly. the same macaroni, the same. we drew tattoos all over three barbies. my piercing oozed for years, bad side of my face, twisting bursts of dingy white.
it was strange to watch the 1961 version, the uglier twin: even more egregiously white, even more overtly pro-nuclear family. strange to watch it veer close to familiar, the father left alone on his swinging horse, the pranking honey on the arms, the pranking lizard on the bottle, the twins crossing their fingers in Xs over their chests.
we sat in the pantry with oreos and peanut butter. it was one of the last summers. we jumped on the wet floor, washed our hair in the rain like my mom had. noses insistent in our grandfather’s chest, saying it twice, in both versions, “making a memory!” “making a memory!” “[smells his jacket again] peppermint and pipe tobacco.” “tobacco and peppermint.” the same girl facing herself, the seam of the door; we three in a closet with a clanking wooden puppet. we always said we’d have met anyway, even in another version, feet in the dirt on the swing.
in this version, the dad’s girlfriend is the dad’s girlfriend’s mother. this twin hums the song the others sang on the porch. in both versions, their mothers wear – their mother wears the button-up with breast pockets to not go camping. in both, your appetite – “your appetite has changed.” but it’s not the same without chessy’s crumbling growl, voice like thick cake stuck to the palette. the actress had twins the same day the twin lindsays were born, october 11th, eight days after october 3rd, lohan a twin of herself through time in a week.
i avoid seeing actors where they are now, loosening resonances, having existed now outside of my memory. he was at jon’s chapbook launch, outside of my memory, a boy who had lived in our sister house in first year. kate recognized him right away (kate, whom i met around the same time; black collar, white daisy, lines diverging; we walk now in our same orange tuques and i try to make eye contact with other oranges so that they know we are three) but not me, not until i looked at him straight on and saw his same ears, tucked behind a beard, glasses, an orange tuque. an orange tuque. we didn’t remember each other’s names. we looked at each other like turning and taking off fencing helmets.