history. letters in reverse
Once touched, I hold a moment close always, in some corner of my soul, strewn as it is with the bric-a-brac of an emotionally rich and haunted lifetime. Piled up with blood and wood and tears and stillness. The objects of my focus: iridescent insects, sleeping birds, chunks of colored glass and brittle flowers. How would I construct a tableau of my lucid memory? Boxes of paper folded and covered with the calligraphy of memory. Words that I could touch, carved in warm wood or etched onto the cold harshness of copper. I wander through flea markets and antique stores looking for old pieces of type, letters in reverse. I find such beauty in this, the backward reality of language; what is printed onto the surfaces of my consciousness. Able to brush my fingers across the surface of the type, coming away stained with the ink of alphabets.