My memories appear like a montage. Small frames of scenes only lasting a few seconds.
I travel on memories like stepping on stones that jut out of the river to get from one side to the other, to complete a larger reminisce.
Is the way I see memory different from someone else.
I remember like a photograph.
Younger memories are faded as a polaroid only in an artistic sense.
Strongest recurring memories are ones that I can smell as well.
The engine in an old fridge, the cork under under a metal cap.
Earliest memories are extreme close ups of faces, probably my parents.
I often still dream in extreme close up, that’s how strong my first memories are.
My memory is still potent, names, figures, what shocks me is the other gate I have to walk through.
In the past, did people remember in paintings and drawings, in spits of ochre.
Are memories more real and lasting if we don’t photograph them.
Tunneled in a lens, are memories lost for the observer, the cataloguer.
There were indigenous cultures that felt photography stole your soul, maybe photography steals your memories.
All I understand is this, I am remembering myself remembering it, and that in itself becomes a new memory
stumbled into a brickworks happening, grabbed a brew from the bottle-o cause it seemed only natural, dj all boom shack-a-lack, loud blankets down teasing, what we can and can’t, chess kicks to the dance inevitable, stage is set, just a square that juts, so fit in, this is the spot, ripe strawberries, boozy brown paper bags and some grass to lie in, clouds and the sun our lightshow, so play on.
they had drawn
each others smiles
like cloudy stencils
lines and letters
that didn’t make up any words
his face was left
right hand on her mouth
her face was right
left hand painted his
spun like sugar
slit in a zoetrope
if you looked inside
you could see them