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Lance Olsen: Girl Imagined by Chance

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Lance Olsen Girl Imagined by Chance

Girl Imagined by Chance: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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While in all likelihood the photo was taken in Idaho, it is equally possible that it was taken in British Columbia, Finland, or Utah.

In a city park, natural woods, someone’s overgrown backyard.

Outdoors or on an indoor set.

Today or last year.

Last year or half a decade ago.

The point being there is no context to privilege one reading over another.

Vision turning out to be all about the boundaries of vision.

Is the photographer trying to hide something by framing the subject the way he or she did, by employing black-and-white instead of color film, by drawing attention away from the subject’s body to her face?

Or is he or she simply following the conventions of portraiture, though not especially well?

Is it innocence or artifice that accounts for the overexposure and fuzziness?

And what is that in her hands?

A flower, a tissue, a chemical blur?

The intimate detail of how your eyeballs move.


Andi slips out of bed two hours later.

You hear her trying to be quiet at close range, rummaging through the closet, sifting through the bottom drawer of the armoire.

She closes the bedroom door behind her and clumps downstairs.

Lying there, you remember for no reason how your father once took you ice fishing in upstate New York.

Upstate New York or southern Vermont.

You forget which.

Just you and Magritte and your father and his cigars, just the men in the family, just his smoke filling the cab of the rented Chevy pickup as you crept across the pancake landscape white as a dream at dawn.

Magritte being your dog.

Your dog being a golden retriever.

Your golden retriever having acquired stomach parasites in Venezuela.

You have not recalled this in years.

You hear the shower hiss on briefly, then tunk off.

It sneaks up on you Andi drew a blank about the hot-water heater.

The three of you standing in the middle of the empty lake, Magritte, you, and your father, hunkering against the fierce wind, you and your father reminiscent of over-sized puffer fish in your bulky orange parkas.

A thin fishing pole in your gloved hands.

A stick of dynamite with a long fuse in your father’s.

Magritte sometimes raising his head in your living room, apropos of nothing, and vomiting finger-nail-sized white bugs on your sagebrush wall-to-wall.

You come awake again to the sound of your car crunching down the gravel driveway and you lie there listening, feeling culpable.

Your father extracting the cigar from his lips and using its tip to kiss the fuse.

His body a break against the wind.

You resolve to wash all the laundry in the house today.

Men’s men.

Men’s men’s men.

That is what you and your father and Magritte were trying to be.

Wash all the laundry and have dinner waiting when Andi returns, at which time you will tell her to forget about all this grandkid stuff.

Your father reaching back and hurling the stick like a famous baseball pitcher his baseball in order to blow open a hole in the ice through which to fish.

This grandkid stuff and this Grannam stuff.

Because it stands to reason that all the bad stuff will pass.

You being unable to name a single famous baseball pitcher, it occurs to you, lying there, listening to your car gain distance.

The little red dowel bouncing on the white dreaminess maybe thirty feet out.

The wind whipping so hard you suspected your eardrums might implode.

Give it time, you will tell Andi, when she returns, be patient, and it will pass, all the bad stuff will recede into the past.

Things are one way, then they are another.

This seems like an obvious statement.

This seems like an obvious statement, only it is not.

Your sudden awareness of the big reddish-brown indistinctness bounding by you on your right and your father beginning to shout.

This is what you will never forget.

That quick awareness.

Upstate New York, southern Vermont, or Maine.

Maine or Pennsylvania.

Specific location sometimes not being central to a given narrative.

Magritte retrieving, in any case.

You half-dream yourself downstairs, composing a bowl of granola, vanilla yogurt, and banana slices.

You half-dream your father abruptly shouting — first to get back here, get the hell back here, then to stay away, stay the hell away.

It is that easy to change.

Pouring yourself a glass of organic kiwi-and-strawberry juice.

Abruptly yelling and now abruptly grabbing your parka hood and starting to run in the opposite direction from retrieving Magritte, Magritte no longer retrieving, needless to say, but in fact returning from retrieval.

Taking a few minutes to arrange everything pleasingly on a brown turtle-shell plastic tray.

Your legs buckling.

Your father dragging you across the dream.

The wind in your ears like a waterfall.

The last thing you see over your shoulder being Magritte.

Traveling, traveling.

You grinding some coffee beans and scooping the residue into a filter, putting on your sunglasses, heading out to the swing on the front porch in your white terry cloth robe, feeling like an actor in a commercial for healthy living.

The last thing you see over your shoulder being Magritte ducking under the cab of the rented pickup, gray in the icy wind.

A different pickup.

Not the one central to your current story, that is.

Magritte’s tail wagging like mad.

On the swing, you taking out your stylus and PalmPilot from the pocket of your white terry cloth robe and, feeling culpable, trying to think of something to write.

What you are remembering this second, say.

The orange-black fireball.

The orange-black fireball and you being airborne.

In the act of pitching forward.

Your father and you being airborne.

The sound of a steam whistle in your head.

You wiping your mouth with a sand-colored napkin and noticing how the sun striates through the trees like a lush painting by a sentimental Italian.

The last thing you see over your shoulder being the orange-black fireball followed by a huge black-blue hole in the whiteness.

A sentimental Italian or a sentimental Frenchman.

The last thing you hear being the sound of lakewater sloshing out.

Heavy aquatic gurgling.

The storm inside your ears.


Now you boot up the computer in your office.

Sipping coffee, you sort through twenty-three e-mails, almost all of them from Auztin, his tone especially sardonic today.

Some messages are cc’s from your boss’s boss, Zach.

Zach accentuates his irony by bracketing all key words in his memos with quotation marks.

If it’s not “too much trouble” for you, could you please “think” of a “new strategy” for the Williamson “project.”

The voice in his messages is not recognizably anthropoidal.

You work on a site for an artist who chews broken glass with what is left of her demolished teeth.

And for another who has himself shot with small-caliber handguns by his ex-girlfriend.

The visitor to Virtual Digitalus makes his or her way down a long darkly-lit hall with 3-D photographs of the various performers floating around him or her like rotating sugar cubes.

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