There was no huge event that happened that changed everything. Or at least I don’t remember syncopation in
the time line. Nothing ever seemed like
that “IT” moment when everything would never or ever be.
And it’s not that anything was flat either. Maybe it’s better to say that I never viewed
my memory as a timeline at all. I never
thought of things individuated from other events. Moments were never separated forms. They merged and danced with other moments and
created a tapestry or a hammock. My life
laid on a hammock- grass growing up in between the fabric in the lush
summertime moments and ice pulling other moments into sharp clarity in crystal
pain.
Time has a milky feel- spread out on a big paper. Colors bleed into one another and form
images. Familiar themes emerge and run
throughout. Sometimes odd bits are
introduced and they stand out but often they are the more boring and mundane
elements of time. So they are discarded
as irrelevant.
The paper all this happens on is dimensionless- it is very small and very
large within the same breath. This is
not odd or curious. It merely is.
The milk paint colors can we worked over- they can be pushed back or
pulled out. But once the color is placed
on the paper, it changes the paper and cannot be erased. Even the act of erasing an image leaves
impressions upon the paper- the fibers rubbed away and a new layer
exposed. The way this new surface would
hold the milk paint colors would be different than the other layers. That difference would prove to be a curious
moment that would invoke further inspection and thereby exposing the
under-drawing of what was before.
So best to not erase…best to just move on to a new part of the
paper. After all the paper is
boundless. Maybe.
