The first spots were discovered, and contrary to my sense of fiction, they had nothing to do with extraterrestrials or loneliness. Nor poverty. Soon, no exact timetable, but soon my memories would no longer be mine. I would no longer have a fixed place within their shifting geography and tablature, within their persuasive mythology. I would become a vagrant mimic, shadowing my elusive host. I would drift, and keep on drifting—a severed and bi-polar chunk of glacier. My memories would be scattered like pixelated minnows in a raging sea. I talk like this, in the color of metaphors and melting wax, while I still can … before language abandons me, or I it. I have decided to keep a record. Uneven, sprawling, subject to inclement moods and their accompanying tides … it doesn’t matter .. some kind of record, some kind of something—In Memory of Memory—that’s what I’d call it, if I were to call it anything. Which I won’t.
Let me start again: my memory is going and where it is going I cannot follow.
Let me start again-again: There are ghosts everywhere. And this brings me more comfort than you can possibly imagine.
P.S. I have always imagined myself intimate with distances, with myself at a distance. The spots, in their flagless colonization, will change all that. What will remain? And who will speak on behalf of those remains?
