‘Secondhand’
— Joyce Chong
Looking at the synchronized clocks was like watching a train emerging from a tunnel, like staring down the infinite dark of a shotgun barrel.
These days I find I can’t quite keep track of time. It seems that the busier you are, the harder it is to catch any traction against the relentless passing of hours and days. I’m always getting the date wrong. Since when did it become February? Sam Martone’s ‘Secondhand’ encompasses a distant sense of unease and uncertainty, brought to life by details that are so vivid and surreal, you almost hesitate to doubt them. The narrative voice is convincing, familiar enough that you think you know this person. You’re glad to be catching up with them. Martone’s prose follows through at such a pace, with such confidence in its own reality (or surreality), that it has the feeling of a senseless dream you buy into, as if you’ll wake up convinced that those images were your own memories.
Being occupied puts sense back into the world, it lets your mind wander, and gives you reprieve from the things that are difficult. For just one moment, it’s okay to lose track of where we are, but don’t forget to come back. It’s not all about what’s been done, what’s already passed. Think about what there’s still to do. The places we’ll go.