The Wrong End of the Telescope

by Rabih Alameddine

I can’t tell you how much I miss the smell of the sea.

I grew up on the beaches in SoCal. NoCal just doesnt have the beaches. I miss PCH and the hidden beach just south of Zuma Beach. I used to go to LA and take my skates so I could skate the bike path along the beach for miles and miles like I used to do when I lived in Venice Beach a block off the beach. It kept me from losing my alleged mind.

You read aloud only those who fell from the skies, not in any particular order.

How will I ever forget this? Each an Icarus seeking frredom from oppression only to fall from the sky. Bonechilling.

“Who would keep a list like this?” I asked you. “Wikipedia,” you said. “No,” I said. “I meant who would keep a list like this on his person?” “Me?” you said. “I mean, someone has to, don’t you think?”

Someone has to.

You were trying to find out whether any of the refugees cared to immigrate to the United States. Not one refugee cared to, not one on the entire island. All of them wanted to go to Germany, to Sweden, to Denmark, and that was before the imbecile president of America was elected.

Smart people.

The family had ended up in Florida, Tallahassee of all places, which seemed appropriate for some reason.

Worse even than Texas.

and the book you treasured

most, Naipaul’s A House for Mr. Biswas. She

Wonderful book!

You said, in a whisper, that the only wall you broke was yours.

I had the thickest wall built against a brutalizing mother. Your books and my experiences in refugeee camps and displaced persons camps in Kenya are bringing that wall down. I'm at sea with it all.

Where the gods?

John Banville would have that the gods are still here but we don't believe in them anymore.