The sculpture garden at The Metropolitan Museum, New York
(For Kay, who wanted me to post a review of my cry-fest locales in NYC, as they say you’re not a real New Yorker until you’ve cried in public here).
The other day, I walked by a coffee shop in my neighborhood, in which I had cried my eyes out some time ago before going to a day-time orgy. I had buried my face in his chest, trying to avoid eye contact with strangers, but of course they noticed, and either tried to look at what was happening out of the corner of their eyes or to avert their gazes uncomfortably. I didn’t say many words at the time, or at least not many coherent ones. I didn’t need to. He knew what had happened. Continue reading →
The Anthropomorphic Chest of Drawers by Salvador Dali
There are so many memories that I try to push out of my mind. And yet, when I find myself actually losing some, I regret forgetting, especially when trying to piece together stories from years ago.
Sometimes, when the memories are too recent or too painful, I pack them away in drawers, like dresses and skirts put away for the winter or sweaters and coats put away for the summer. And when I go to retrieve them, if I find that some have been lost, misplaced or eaten by moths, I weave and knit around them to make them whole again. I embellish with imaginations and would-have-beens. A new sweater. A better story. A fragmented memory stitched and bandaged into a caricature of its former self.