If I can’t remember it, is it still a part of me?
Friday, September 23rd, 2011
I went up to my study last week and screamed. For reasons, that perhaps only a five-year-old can understand, Arch had pulled every one of my books from my shelves and hurled them in a spine-bent, cover-ripped pile on the floor.
So that was how I came to be doing something I had not done for five years, ten years, 20 years in some cases – laying my hands upon my treasures…opening them, smelling them, remembering what I had been doing and who I had been when I had drunk deeply of their meanings.
But as I leafed through these layers of self, I was surprised to find strangeness and familiarity in equal measure.