Future IdeologyPOSTCARDS: ANDREW 1992/BEIJING 2050

By Abel M. Folgar


My sister writes on the back of this memory

how little she was and what fun it seemed

to find this tangled mess so far from its

original mooring. Over a score now since

Andrew tossed them from an angry sea like

the mongrel fiberglass germs they were; the

leukocyte push effective, even if temporarily

so—to rest upon a pinhead this mangled muddle

of radar pings interlocked into echo-locating

themselves. What did they find? That they were

far from home? That their boundaries no longer

mattered? Their safe spaces now cozy alcoves for

the other detritus the storm jostled loose?

This memory finds me well, fading into my

future as the shades on those boats darkens.

I can only imagine that every corner of the NYC

you live in, every subway staircase you traipse,

every moment of quiet contemplation you’ve

managed; must be a different version of that

boat dogpile—you weren’t too young to let the

chaos go unnoticed then, and you’re old enough

now to appreciate how germs will always be

expelled by larger, angrier organisms—even if

you can find some fun in the gravity of that.

Memory Through Passage of Time


We often spoke of the future, how the brutal

weight of everything would crumble and leave

a new landscape for us to explore. We knew

when we were teenagers that our covenant

could not be broken; even if loves and wanderlust

set us on diverging paths. How did we ever agree

upon crafting wuxia epics? What did we know

of the East from our very Western environs?

That’s not our story; that’s Wong Kar-wai’s story

and this postcard of Beijing in 2050 reminds me

of movie nights hazy through cigarette smoke,

of the dreams we’d share when our routes

would inevitable converge—the fortuitous pretzel

lemniscate of elliptical travel. If you were at my

kitchen table now, you’d argue the practicality

of this veil dumped upon an unsuspecting populous;

a Le Corbusier cathedral-inspired dream, nervous and

recoiling from a Chihuly nightmare creeping in.

Maybe they were going for lily pads, I’d counter,

and you’d roll your eyes; clear distaste over a

hint of Monet in conversation knowing the following

day, we’d be on the move again; waiting

for a new landscape to emerge—a new postcard to

help echolocate us through time and space.



Photography Patricia Margarita Hernandez

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