An interdisciplinary journal about regions, places, and cultures of the US South and their global connections
  • resep kue kering
  • resep kue
  • recept
  • resep sambal goreng kentang
  • resep kue sus
  • resep ayam
  • resep soto ayam
  • resep ikan bakar
  • pecel lele
  • resep kue kering lebaran
  • resep nastar
  • resep nasi goreng
  • resep ayam goreng
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  • recipe
  • Gone With the Wind

    One night in 1940
    my granddad slumped in the dark
    in the Princess Theatre,
    which is not here anymore,
    to watch Gone With the Wind,
    then watch it again,
    in the flickering dark.
    He was 14.
    Later, he would be old.
    Later, the lights would come up
    for the last time, and he would walk
    through the theatre's neon halo
    into the dark and the twelve miles home.
    The trains would be gone.
    The streetcars and buses would be gone.
    He would creep through the yard
    as dawn flickered through the pines,
    which are not there anymore.
    It would be Sunday, and he would wait
    for the rooster to crow
    over the screen door's creaking.
    It would be Sunday, and he would pray
    for his parents to pass over his sleep
    on their way to church, the door
    whining closed behind them.
    But all that would come later,
    after the lights had come up at last
    in the room which is not here anymore
    where the last train runs again
    through the miniature town, past
    the old brick courthouse, its clock
    creeping past some midnight or noon,
    over empty streets and the river
    disappearing at the model's edge
    the way the Princess would years later,
    engulfed in flame, Broad Street flickering
    neon and fire, like Atlanta
    spilling into the night, and the Princess,
    here, in miniature, painted by the flickering
    of a model trolley's tiny headlamps
    on the tiny corner of 5th and Broad
    in this room on the corner
    of 5th and Broad where the Princess,
    which is not here anymore, used to be,
    where he slumps in the room in my mind,
    the whole future, the whole Technicolor past
    flickering before him, through the dark
    which is not here anymore.

     

    Published in Southern Quarterly 45.1 (Fall 2007): 53-54.
    Text may vary slightly from the video reading.

    Published: 7 March 2008
    © 2008 Jake Adam York and Southern Spaces