SHoP/Sharples Holden Pasquarelli
Thirteen years later I remember it differently. In the version that’s in my mind, you always entered the corridor from the right side, not the left. I remember the pools but not the misting towers. Somehow I missed those.
I was with at least three other people that day. One was the Subaru Narrator, who had a few weeks to kill before the fall semester began. Another was the Serangoon Narrator; it was her first trip to New York. And the Chelsea Narrator was there, too. I forget if he had already hit his Austinite smoking phase by then. I remember him taking a ton of pictures with his digital camera on that trip; it was a pack-a-day habit in terms of AA batteries. I’m not sure he has a camera anymore.
No job for me back then. I had a couple temp gigs, but otherwise it was a dry summer. I had to make it work, though — the arrangement, as it was, had to somehow get better. But the plan never came together. For a while it was like I was trapped in that little Dunescape corridor. Do I backtrack or not? Yes? No? Stop. Make it stop.
I was trying to learn ”Wabash Rag" around this time, and that’s what I hear as I’m reminded of this exhibit. Thirteen years ago, the smell of the cedar overwhelmed you, and you would feel the crunch of gravel under your shoes once you left it. But now it’s barely there, a faded skeleton drowned out by ragtime.