accompaniment

I have become aware of a tendency I have to mythologize accompaniment. I also have a tendency to write inscrutable sentences. The earliest example I can recall (of the former) is when a friend was telling me about this childhood neighbor of his, this girl he used to fight with growing up, but he always had the sense that the fighting was driven by kiddie flirtation. He was home from college one summer afternoon and was rummaging through the back seat of his car in his suburban dallas driveway, when she appeared behind him. He hadn’t seen her in a long time, and greeted her warmly. She asked where he was going, and before he had a chance to answer, she said, I want to come. The next example is a picture taken on September 11, 2001 of two people who leapt off the flaming world trade center, mid-air 100 stories up, so small in the pic that you can’t tell their gender, but you can see that they’re holding hands. I blog this because I’m haunted by a dream I had last week after seeing les invasions barbares. At the end of the movie an old dying guy has himself euthanized. In the dream there’s some other old guy being euthanized by his wife of 50 years, two faceless and formless old folks surrounded by their family. The man had been fighting a progressive disease and has somehow arranged for his healthy but elderly wife to deliver the antidote, and he’s lying on a bed, she sits beside him, they stare at each other as she gives him the injection, the room is completely silent. His eyes are still open, and she says, I want to come, and injects herself. That’s all I remember.

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