Problems with Memories

My memory terrain has evolved into a membrane of surfaces cracked, reflecting the reality of fractures and the irreparable problems they reveal.

I didn't want to think about this because it was too ironic, too painful, too real, too hard and too big to hide from what was blatantly staring at me.

I am trying to have a different relationship with these hurtful surfaces, trying to approach them from a different angle; trying to imagine myself as bigger, smaller, younger, wiser, older, richer, a slave, a peasant, an ardent lover or an impossible interloper who's used to playing the field.  I'm bracing for whatever landing is rising up to meet me.  I'm looking for tools, for things that I can grab onto while I fall: a tree branch, a prayer, a handsome young paratrooper with nothing but time and money to burn with me.  I'm changing shapes while I fall: buckling, diving, bracing, sitting ducked with my head between my knees.

Thinking more about cracks and crevices and the problems they reveal. They're much like the whites of an egg slipping from the ridiculously fragile shells that they took for granted and were complacent about for way too long.  I don't know if they thought they could live in there forever without ever paying me a dime; taking up all that prime real estate in my refrigerated suburban charade.  I'm thinking about opportunities, about patching up cracks and crevices with a heavy tempura gouache. I fix mistakes by magic, by calling things out as I see them, as something more honest, more real to me. I call them secrets waiting to be revealed.