simon dolch - memories

Outside it seemed like a normal day; that was my first thought. I went out at sunset and took Elizabeth with me. 24 hours, and half of them aren’t enough to migrate my funeral thoughts to the center of my heart. Elizabeth is good company; she never dares to finish her sentences.

I repeat: it seemed, because now that I think back, today is one of the many anniversaries I keep track of in my mind. It's been 10 years since I last stepped into my parents’ house (yes, I remember the date) and the first time I drank alcohol (not knowing I’d fall into addiction).

Speaking of our trip, I can't say I like forests, just like I can’t say I like 90% of things, though I must admit it helped clear my mind. I hate sunsets like I hate seeing the sun in the morning. I love traveling like I love drinking. 04/05/07

Today we rented a room in a cheap motel, practiced some mental abuse with Elizabeth, and turned the sink into a bloody mess. After a few rounds of psychological trauma, Elizabeth was somewhat confused; her nose started bleeding. We had to pay extra for staining the sheets.

Lately my mind’s all over the place, a bit more alert than usual. It’s strange—I don’t feel entirely present. This morning I drank too much, but it had no effect on me. I hate hot coffee and I hate Elizabeth’s rabbit. 04/03/07

Tonight was long, with long conversations with Elizabeth, which is extremely rare, since as I’ve said, she doesn’t have the courage to hold a coherent conversation with me. We listened to music on my record player. Sometimes we’d fall silent, but it wasn’t uncomfortable—not at all. I must admit I felt like drinking, but I had to abstain because Elizabeth hates it when I do.

We took photos of a few scenes. We have several ideas in mind—especially her. Today she opted for something quite basic: cuts. They were quick to make. Elizabeth has practice. Despite that, lately she’s more sensitive than ever. I’ve tried everything within my limits to help her, but there seems to be no solution. All we can do is wait and see what the future has in store for us—and more than anything, for her. 03/30/07

Elizabeth had chosen the place: a secluded clearing where the sunset light barely touched the ground. Everything was damp, as if the forest still remembered the rain from past days.

Sometimes I wonder if it all really happened. Today I found one of her notebooks buried among the roots of the oldest pine. It was wet, the pages warped, but I could still read some words: “Dead things can still speak, if you know how to listen.” I don’t know when she wrote that. Or if she wrote it for me.

Can Elizabeth sleep peacefully? Freedom. 03/28/07

Elizabeth here: The road was empty. Lately, my mind is on the moon, in space, in the stars and constellations—I hide it well. Frankly, I have no idea why the world tries so hard to scold me for the past.

RAW. That’s what she called it. That word—raw and direct—she wrote it in marker on the back of the photo we took that night. She said it’s how she felt inside. Unprotected. Exposed. Something in that stretch of land, with the sky breaking into blue and gray, made her cry. I didn’t understand it then. I just pointed the camera and captured what was left before the silence.

I haven’t gone back down that road since. The horizon remains frozen in that image. But every time I close my eyes, I hear how her voice broke as she said: “I can’t go back, Simon.”

The night is beautiful. 03/20/07

I found her thoughtful, she didn’t say anything, just stared at me with that lost look I’ve grown used to. I stood in front of her, staring at her hands. After a while, she hid them. When she finally spoke, she did so with a frozen calm: “I don’t know if we’re still us.”

I took the photo right after. Because I didn’t know how to respond. 02/31/07

It was 5:48 in the afternoon, and the sky was beginning to darken behind the tall trees of the forest. She was sitting on a concrete bench at the edge of the park she used to visit as a child. She wore an olive green hoodie and had her hair down—she looked content. 02/28/07

Elizabeth walked a few steps ahead, always touching the grass with her fingertips. "I'm nothing without you" she said

We didn’t talk much. The silence between us was heavy, like wet clothes clinging to the skin. I tried to record her voice once. She looked at me and whispered, “Stop it” I deleted the file. 02/27/07

She laughed once during the walk, but it didn’t reach her eyes. I think she was trying to convince me that we were still real. We lay down in the tall grass, barely touching, listening to the wind howl like something was about to break.

“Do you think anyone will find us?” she asked. I said nothing. I wanted the moment to stay unanswered, like the questions we both carried in silence. 02/20/07

We reached the lake just before dusk. Elizabeth refused to step closer. “It remembers too much,” she muttered. I took the photo while she stood behind me, holding onto my hoodie like she was afraid of vanishing.

Later, in the car, she told me she had dreamt of drowning. I said nothing. I didn’t tell her I had the same dream too. Only in mine, I let her go. 02/18/07