Lincoln, 2008, JBMemories are killing. So you must not think of certain things, of those that are dear to you, or rather you must think of them, for if you don’t there is the danger of finding them, in your mind, little by little.
Samuel Beckett
London, 2006, JB... we hold within us a treasure of impressions, clustered in small knots, each with a flavour of its own, formed from our own experiences, that become certain moments of our past...
Marcel Proust
One of those periods of harvesting - not sowing, but reaping, as the sun is high in the sky and the mind's eye turns inward. The mind has many chambers, akin to a cow's stomach. Thoughts, images, memories, move between these vast spaces, and after each passage are slowly transformed. Mnemonic enzymes are added. Sharp edges are slowly broken down. Precision becomes frisson, a mere glancing encounter, a sensation, the slight breath of wind. Was it so?
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