I twice read Susanna Clarke’s Piranesi this December, and in the last few pages – I won’t spoil it – in the last few pages, I was suddenly in Chicago in winter seeing the trees spangled with lights, and remembering a different life, one in which I wandered around ancient monuments each weekend. It was as recent as March. Someday I hope I can write about it in full.
When I left America three-and-a-half years ago, I was young and awkward and wanted to save the world. I think of this person with fondness and distance.
Since then, I’ve lived a half-dozen lives: lives of dust and chocolate; lives of monkeys and ponds; lives of problems that haunt my dreams and have become my desires.
When you return to a place, you’re no longer the person you were when you left, but you’re also no longer the person you were when you were away.
Walking by the lake in Chicago, sometimes there’s a break in the fabric of reality. For a moment, you’re walking by the canals of Alleppey, the water dark, and boats along the edges, palm trees and banana chips. Or it’s Lusaka’s June, and the rich soil by the sidewalk holds the caterpillar tracks of construction and peach trees hang over the walls. These moments are like being reborn.