6 November 2013
Feeling pretty low today. The cold is advancing, sore throat. Woke up to no heat, but at least I now know I can fix the water pressure in the boiler. I’m tired, and I’m afraid nothing is getting done today. I had a great poem for the winter, but do you mind if I type it up and add it in later?
Memory is malleable and formless. Memory is held inside pages and screens. Memory is shifty, incomplete. Memory likes to think highly of itself, but when you double-check, it changes its story. Memory is a story we write as we go along. Memory is a focus and a frame and a challenge. Memory is challenging.
Memory is a light turning on and off, a family vacation, the name of the first person who knew you better than you knew yourself. Memory has seams, but the seams are perfect and the stitching is invisible. Memory is a hummed tune, illumination. A recording. Memory is a fickle system, a labyrinth of spun tales. Memory is episodic, brief, long-term, or ever-lasting. Memory unwraps itself in layers, and even when it’s not there, it’s still there somewhere.