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#282 :: Surviving Domino Half

November 17, 2004

It has a story to tell. Maybe 20. Data points from a hidden history pop through the scars – the cement park table where the old men slapped it down every Saturday morning, thousands of times. The years it spent in a gravel parking lot, which saw it split in two, soaked in piss, gouged, marred. Ruined and made more interesting, at once. Maybe, rather, it was broken in rage, in frustration, in curiosity at the hands of a bored cholo. Maybe a car shattered it, leaving for dead the deep sockets of its six paint-dotted eyes. Its brother-half gone – smashed to bits of green Bakelite resin amid the busted safety glass and cigarette butts – it briefly held a 9-year-old’s rapt attention, then lost it to Saturday morning cartoons and Sunday afternoon X-Box spasms. Flung outside. Onward. Someone else found it. Someone gave it a new story to tell: It sits on a stainless steel desktop, on a black cloth, under a hot light. It reflects light into a camera, and its light is splintered into pixels, focused, framed, reassembled into a ghost on a server somewhere for as long as the server fees are paid. It demands to be picked up and understood. It demands someone write.

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