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2014年4月14日星期一

Time Wrinkles


图片取自 River City Reading

  Going into the woods by yourself is the best way to pretend you're in another time. It's a thing you can only do alone. If there's somebody else with you, it's too easy to remember where you really are. The woods I go to start behind the middle and high school buildings. They start there, but they stretch up north for miles, toward Mahopac and Carmel, and then farther, to places I don't know the names of.

  The first thing I do when I get to the woods is hang my backpack on a tree branch. Then I walk. To make it work you have to work until you can't hear cars at all, and that's what I do. I walk and walk until all I can hear are the little cracks and snaps of branches and the swish of the brook. I follow the brook to place where there's a crumbling dry stone wall and a tall maple tree with a rusted-out sap bucket nailed just above head height. That's my place. That's where I stop. In the book A Wrinkle in Time, it says time is like a big old rumpled blanket. What I'd like is to be caught in one of those wrinkles. Tucked away. Hidden in a small tight fold.

Tell the Wolves I'm Home, P11
Carol Rifka Brunt
ISBN 978-0-679-64419-4

Mak Xiao Wei(2014.04.12)>>[当周脸书帖子]>>

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