Dry Rowing
Автор: QnDJ
Загружено: 2025-12-03
Просмотров: 26
“Dry Rowing,” he tells the psychiatrist, wasn’t about rowing, not really. It was about my childhood in Brooklyn, where my mother insisted that physical activity was good for the soul—an idea she repeated while never actually engaging in any herself. The jam’s E–C#m–D lurch, then the Bm–D–C#m shuffle, feels exactly like those Saturday mornings when she’d hand me a pair of makeshift oars and tell me to “practice rowing on the linoleum,” because one day, one day, we might live near a lake. And there I was, a kid in a tiny apartment, making heroic maritime gestures in front of the refrigerator while my father shouted that I was blocking the light. The psychiatrist interrupts to ask if this “dry rowing” symbolised futility or aspiration. I say: both. You don’t grow up in my neighbourhood without learning that sometimes the only way forward is to pretend the water is there—keep rowing, keep sliding along those chords, and hope nobody opens the door and knocks you off your imaginary boat.
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