For a moment, I thought it would be easy to simply tell a simple story.
When I write, I approach memories sideways. In dark glasses, I peer from behind a curtain, scribbling a secret alphabet in invisible ink. With kaleidoscope, scissors and chance, I reconstruct (disassemble, scatter, twirl).
Complicated and convoluted intricacies bring us to "here's what happened."
In every remembrance, time is a prism refracting memories, senses, and desires. We write of mirages when we write of ourselves.
Nothing is as simple as "I enjoyed the crunchy celery."
